A Lasting Spring
by Wheel of Fish
Summary: He is presumed dead or gone, but nine months after the infamous "Don Juan" incident, the very-much-present Phantom is tackling more challenges than ever: crippling guilt, Christine's continued presence as star soprano, that insufferable vicomte, and an unlikely houseguest. Mostly ALW-based. COMPLETE.
1. Prologue & A Proper Vicomtesse

_A/N: Please drop a line and tell me what you're thinking as you read! Otherwise, I feel like I'm shouting into a sad, lonely void._

 _Context is largely the ALW stage musical because it's freshest in my memory, but there are touches of Leroux and also Google Earth (street views of Paris, the Palais Garnier, and the underground "lake"). You are, of course, free to imagine whichever iteration of the Phantom works best for you. :)_

* * *

" _He who is unable to live in society, or who has no need because he is sufficient for himself, must be either a beast or a god . . . ."_

 _-Aristotle_

 _Prologue_

It was little comfort at the time, but the Phantom knew right after Christine Daae's departure that his grief would not kill him. He knew this because when the mob subsequently descended on his lair, he chose to go on living. Before he fled, he was even so lucid as to plant his spare mask where it would be seen, so that he might be presumed dead—or at least disappeared.

He donned a hooded cloak and took to the sewers, as usual, but he headed where he thought no one would expect: up. Tears dripped down his cheeks for the duration of his half-hour trek to the summit of the city, the _butte Montmartre_.

He had not been this way in a while, and he surfaced too early, near an ill-kept row of apartments. Farther down, an equally unkempt man leaned against a brick facade, sipping from a bottle of what appeared to be cognac. The Phantom produced a handful of banknotes and thrust them in front of the man's face. "All of this for the bottle," he said, and the man's eyes grew wide.

Seconds later he was on his way again, now taking long swigs of cognac. He generally abstained from alcohol, a puritan only for the purpose of preserving his voice. But what use did he have for that voice any longer? Of course, a glass would have been preferred.

By the time he reached the construction site of the Sacré-Cœur Basilica at the highest point of the city, his muscles were pleasantly lethargic. He slumped against a low, unfinished wall of the chalky white stone being used to construct the church; the reprieve caused fresh agony to churn like bile in the pit of his stomach.

Christine's ability to empathize with him in what was likely the worst moment of her life had shaken him right to his core, turning him inside out so that he was newly vulnerable, a pink-skinned infant first exposed to the harsh light of day from within the sanctuary of a loving embrace. He felt the anguish behind her pity. He saw her hopes and dreams shattering like the chandelier he had once sent careening to her feet. _He had done that._ To the woman whom he'd claimed to love. He had been the one to break off the kiss, because he could not stop seeing everything that he had taken from her—and yet, there she was, still giving him everything she had.

But, oh, the images of his treachery had not stopped after he separated himself from her. The vicomte's angry devastation still burned before him. And then there were Ubaldo Piangi and Joseph Buquet, and the numerous others he had harassed and extorted and manipulated without even considering until now that they had first names. Each misdeed had pierced his memory like a knife to the gut until he thought he might keel over. Only his angel's wide, probing eyes had reined in his focus.

Oh, Christine. That beloved angel of light. He had known he must get her out, for all of their sakes. He had made short work of freeing the vicomte and sending the pair on their way, his sanity dangling by a thread.

And now...now he could unravel. The grief crashed over him like a tidal wave, sobs wracking his body until it ached. Gradually, as though drowning in his tears, he slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

When he awoke, he was flat on his back, a blanket of stars materializing overhead as the sleep left his eyes. The full moon was high and bright in the sky. He pulled himself to his feet and took in his surroundings: cool white stone, platforms and ladders, pulleys and masonry tools. The power of architecture being realized was perhaps what he relished most about the site—that and its uninhibited view of the Paris skyline. The site's elevation seemed a sharp, formidable contrast to his usual position in the underworld—but in actuality, he knew, he was just as far removed from humanity as he'd ever been. Above instead of below.

He picked up the half-empty bottle of cognac, his face burning with the shame of his uncouth consumption, and hurled what remained of it at the city. He heard it shatter somewhere in the distance.

He thought of Christine, her face when she had reappeared to return the ring that he had placed on her finger. She had been crying, and the last look she had given him was almost wistful. Was it possible that she harbored even an ounce of regret? Where would she go next? What if she sought him out again?

His thoughts then moved from her to the opera house in general. Would it stay open? How would the company fare without its lead soloists? The unknowns plagued him one by one, until he could barely grasp the enormity of what he'd done to his theater. No, _the_ theater. He had finally acknowledged that he was not and had never been a welcome contributor to its operation; his resulting envy had turned out to be the kindling that enabled a spark of vicomte-induced jealousy to accelerate into a fiery inferno.

They knew where he lived, and they wanted him dead...but he had to go back. He had to know.

And so he began his return trip to the 9th arrondissement and the opera house contained therein, his gait now sluggish and erratic. Before he had exited the Montmartre district, a woman beckoned to him from a street corner. Her cheeks were stained with rouge, and her cleavage strained against the neckline of her dress; to call it a neckline, in fact, was a generous concession given how far from her neck it actually was. "Need some company this evening, love?" she purred, and he could not help but gravitate toward the sound of a voice that actually welcomed him. The streetlamp hit his face, and though her gaze flickered warily to his mask, she did not retract her offer. "We can do whatever you'd like," she told him, running a fingertip down his arm. "I won't judge."

Given his distorted, masked face and his complete lack of experience in the boudoir, he was not certain that he believed her. But then, he supposed, enough money could overcome most aversions. And he had a lot of money.

Christine's kiss lingered on his lips, taunting him with its singularity. He would hold fast to his resolve to leave her alone, he determined, but his desire and loneliness raged on. Now so broken that he could barely muster an ounce of self-loathing, he nodded and allowed the woman to lead him by the hand to her small quarters and help him forget his pain, if only for a moment.

And it worked, in a way. He paid for a full night's company—and for the utmost discretion regarding the same—and when he risked a stealthy return to his blessedly empty home the following morning, he was focused enough to assess the vandalism (hardly any—perhaps one of the Giry women had intervened?), and even to devise a way to deter potential future trespassers.

Over the next month or two, he found that if he cycled through enough women and moderately apportioned liquor, his anger and despair were kept at bay. When Christine married the vicomte and the newlyweds left for an extended honeymoon, he even sampled opium. He had all but stopped playing and writing music, for his muse had gone, and in music's place he allowed himself the reckless self-indulgence that he had never entertained as a possibility before.

And then she came back to fill the role of lead soprano.

It was a surprise to everyone, but when Christine and her new husband returned from their honeymoon to a freshly remodeled opera house and a prima donna role reserved in her name—Carlotta having left the country, and the Phantom presumed long dead or departed—she accepted.

But he had not died or departed, even as a husk of his former self. How could a man so easily leave something into which he had poured his blood, sweat, and tears? The theater felt like a physical extension of himself. His words, his ideas—they had shaped the management, the central nervous system that kept everything running. The orchestra pit made up his larynx, releasing the melodies that came from deep within him. The stage was his rib cage, enclosing the vital organs of the opera.

And his heart—oh, his heart. She was still beating. And as long as she beat on in that venue, he felt he must remain there out of admiration and devotion. Their destinies were intertwined, he felt, and she would surely call upon him once again.

He managed a significant reduction in his drinking, and he resumed various pursuits—architectural, literary, culinary—in order to fill his days and distract his mind. He still did not touch his pipe organ, though he began to feel occasional urges to play. Whether his continued avoidance was rooted in self-punishment, traumatic association, or some combination of the two, he could not say.

For nearly three-quarters of a year he remained, undetected and self-sufficient, in the home that he had long ago curated for himself and newly protected with a combination of physical barriers and clever diversion. Music prohibition aside, he carried on as he had for years before—but now as a hollow shell of a man, his anger and passion largely replaced by depression and guilt. Still, he thought, at least the worst had passed.

He was wrong.

* * *

 _Chapter 1: A Proper Vicomtesse_

Sitting at the edge of a courtesan's bed, the Phantom drank deep from a glass of water before he slid his trousers back on. He was not proud to admit it, but he had developed a routine for his brothel visits. First, select a girl, usually a repeat if possible so he would not have to reiterate his terms. If a new girl, though, detail the terms: the mask stayed on; no kissing; no touching his face or hair. Second, satiate physical desires. Once she slipped into the washroom, hydrate. Get dressed. Leave generous tip on bedside table and disappear before her return, thus minimizing any exchange of words and subsequent guilt over her general lot in life and his taking advantage of it.

He patronized one of the cleanest, most discreet establishments that money could buy, but it was still a brothel, and once his shamefully primal physical needs were met, it had very little to offer. Although...was that a newspaper he spied on the nightstand? He picked up the previous day's issue of _Le Petit Journal_ , folded open to a gossip and entertainment page. "Plebian garbage," he muttered. He was about to toss the paper back onto the table when his eye caught the phrase "PRIMA DONNA."

He was still staring at the article in disbelief when the girl returned, wearing nothing but lacy white drawers and black stockings. Her strawberry blonde locks were now pulled back into a lazy chignon, and the cloying aroma of her newly applied perfume preceded her. She slid her hands up his back and shoulders in a gentle massaging motion, peering around him to glimpse the paper. "Shame about that leading lady, isn't it?" Her voice had the high pitch and fast, stumbling cadence of a small child. "That she's leaving the stage, I mean. Rotten good luck for her, of course."

His head snapped up. "What could _possibly_ ," he asked, "be fortuitous about abandoning one's craft?"

"She'll be a proper vicomtesse!" The girl's voice lilted with romantic envy. "Soon she'll spend her days in the beautiful countryside, being doted on by her dashing husband and waited on hand and foot by servants." She raked her fingernails down his back, making him shudder. "And besides, she must have horrid memories of that theater that she's ready to part with. It's a wonder she even went back in the first place, being married to the vicomte. It isn't proper, if you ask me."

He had, in fact, wondered the very same upon the couple's return several months ago. He had been willing to overlook the oddity, clinging to the vain hope that she might one day return to her angel of music out of either desire or necessity. That hope had now been shattered by a gossip page; he felt as though his heart had filled with lead and plummeted to his feet like an anchor.

His companion, meanwhile, did not stop gibbering as she began to sashay around the small room, uncorking and pouring champagne for the two of them. "...And then _I_ told Claudette that she would hardly enjoy the opera because she'd have to wear clothing!" She emitted a creaky, high-pitched giggle, and he briefly closed his eyes in annoyance; this was the most she had ever spoken. Now her grating voice would be forever ingrained in his memory, tainting any future carnal pleasures. He'd have to find a new girl.

"I only wish I could hear the vicomtesse sing before she leaves," she lamented, handing him a champagne flute. "I imagine she is lovely."

He took the glass absently, his soft reply surprising them both: "She is exquisite."

When Christine had first returned to the stage, he had taken to dark, hidden corners of the theater to watch her sing. She was not the same performer the company had known; gone was the childish innocence, the wide-eyed desire to appease and to learn. She still had an unoffending sweetness, but it had dulled, like a honeyed wine left uncorked a bit too long.

But heavens, she was good. It was as though she had shed her residual stage fright and tossed it onto the pile of costumes and relics from _Don Juan_ that were ultimately torched in one large, purgative bonfire, the unnerved stagehands having pled for the destruction of the cursed objects. She emerged a full-bodied phoenix from the ashes of the Opera Ghost era, and both the company and patrons were entranced by the way she now commanded the stage. She was splendid in an operatic comedy, certainly, but the tragedy...well, that was her pièce de résistance. Her onstage anguish was palpable. He ached with pride.

Even her new husband seemed surprised by her transformation, his usual mask of protectiveness softening to accommodate a gentle veneration. They were an intolerably handsome couple, sought after for every gala and event, and their conspicuous intimacy became too much for one Opera Ghost to bear; he soon retreated into his dark, familiar solitude, surfacing only to spy on the occasional day-to-day operations.

"Now then," the girl said, trailing a finger down his chest and pulling him out of his thoughts. "I would love to hear more about your nights at the opera. Are you all set for the evening, darling, or should we have another go?"

He took in her tousled hair, her makeup, her uninhibited breasts. Suddenly, everything about her was garish and repulsive. "Quite set," he replied. He set his untouched champagne on the nightstand and shoved a few francs into her palm. "In fact, don't expect me again. This was a mistake."

"That's what they all say, darling." She smiled and blew him a kiss as he donned his black cloak and fedora. "You know where to find me."

He exited the building swiftly, slipping like a shadow between intersections of brazen women and raucous, drunken men. The weight of his despair grew heavier as he descended into the subterranean maze of sewers beneath the city. He was uncertain which upset him more, that Christine was giving up her true calling or that she was moving to the country where he could not reasonably follow. Either way, he was tired. Tired of inadvertently nourishing every hope that sprouted within his breast, only to have it systematically crushed.

As he strode through the stone passageways, his boots kicking up murky water, he considered new paths forward in the wake of the bad news: 1) Kidnap Christine, again. 2) Kill self. 3) Succumb to drug and/or alcohol addiction (essentially, a slower but possibly less painful version of option No. 2). The latter was certainly the most appealing, but not far from what he had already been doing these past several months—and, frankly, not very poetic. If he could not have music in his life, he thought as he crossed the threshold of his home, then he could at least hope for poetry.

He had spent all of twenty seconds in his sitting room before he was startled by the sound of a splash and a shriek in the distance, beyond the large metal portcullis that separated the elevated room from the waters of the underground lake. The faintest hint of a smile played at his misshapen lips. Drama and intrigue, he thought, would be a satisfactory alternative to poetry for now. And perhaps he could work off some restless energy as well.

The Phantom of the Opera readied his infamous punjab lasso and retreated to the hallway to lie in wait.

* * *

 _More notes, because I'm apparently Notey McNoterson today: Please excuse any weird formatting. This site is not cooperating with me at present, and I'm trying to figure out alternatives._

 _Also, I've taken a few liberties where factual accuracy is concerned. It's nearly impossible to find the perfect intersection of historical and geographical accuracy in every detail, plus sometimes I'm just lazy._


	2. The Intruder

Some five stories beneath the ground floor of the Opera Populaire, Josephine Arnaud was navigating her way as far underground as possible in an attempt to find the subterranean dwelling that had, allegedly, once been inhabited by the Phantom of the Opera.

Her plan involving his home had seemed brilliant when she'd first hatched it. What she had not foreseen: the difficulty of navigating damp, dark stairs and passageways by weak lantern light. Slick floors and hidden obstacles that conspired to bruise her flesh and tailbone. Rats. (Alright, she had expected those—wishful thinking.) The damp, biting cold that felt ten times worse than the late January air above ground. And that _smell_. She scowled at the soaked and muddied hem of her black skirt.

To be honest, she was not even sure she was on the right path. Two stagehands and one dancer had given her vague, slightly conflicting accounts of the mob's descent into the lair on the night that Ubaldo Piangi was murdered nine months ago, and it was not clear that any of them had actually been a part of said mob. With more than a thousand employees and performers, the Opera Populaire was a factory of unsubstantiated rumors.

The stone cellar she'd been traversing came to an abrupt end at a hatchway in the floor. The square opening was blocked off with a tangle of hefty chains and padlocks, with a sign proclaiming, "CLOSED BY ORDER OF MANAGEMENT. DANGER: KEEP OUT." She kicked at the chains and cursed under her breath, collapsing to the floor for a reprieve.

She took off the leather satchel strapped across her chest and surveyed her surroundings while she caught her breath. It occurred to her that she ought to at least sketch the entrance, if only for proof that she had gotten that far. When she removed her sketchbook from the satchel, a pencil tucked inside the pages escaped, bouncing off her leg and rolling away only to fall through a metal grate in the floor. " _Damn_ it," she whispered. It had been her favorite, and she did not have the money to replace it at present. She got up and held her lantern over the grate to see whether the pencil was at all salvageable.

She gasped in surprise; there was a ladder below the grate! Surely, then, it was meant to be a point of access? If it took a sacrificial pencil to get her where she wanted to go, then she would consider it money well spent. She was pleased to find that the grate came out of the floor with minimal resistance, and she slid it aside before lowering her lantern into the opening. She could make out murky green water at the base of the ladder, and she groaned. No wonder the Phantom had managed to stay undetected for so long; who on earth would _ever_ choose to make this trek?

 _Someone desperate enough_ , she answered herself. She cursed again, strapped her satchel back on, anchored her boots on the metal rungs, and lowered herself into the unknown. A few steps down, she hooked the lantern onto a ladder rung so she could slide the grate back into place. It was heavier at this angle, and she jerked back to avoid crushing her finger as it slammed into place. She went careening backward, and her desperate attempts to grab for the ladder only served to make her feet slip as well. With a shriek, she plummeted into stale, icy water.

She righted herself with a loud gasp, grateful that the water only came up to mid-thigh, but her bodice had not escaped getting wet in the fall. Her teeth chattered as her eyes adjusted. To her left was a solid stone wall; to her right, weak light filtered in through a series of overhead grates, spaced about 20 feet apart, and it illuminated a wide, murky canal framed by stone walls with a seemingly infinite number of corridors on either side.

She checked the contents of her satchel: surprisingly dry. The lantern remained at the top of the ladder where she had left it, and when she climbed back up to retrieve it, she was tempted to abandon her efforts entirely.

She looked down the long canal and blinked, wondering whether her eyes were playing tricks on her; there appeared to be the tiniest flutter of amber light from a corridor at the very end. She trudged toward it, anxious for some kind of reprieve from the water where she could sit and perhaps regain the feeling in her toes.

The mysterious light led her to a short stone staircase, an ornate black boat moored to an iron post beside it. She hiked the stairs and passed under a drawn metal portcullis, into an elevated room, where she promptly froze at the sight before her. "It's _real_ ," she whispered.

She stood in what appeared to be a sitting room; there were two high-backed chairs flanking a tea table, as well as a sofa, what appeared to be a drafting table, a fireplace (where did it ventilate? she wondered), and a large oriental rug spread across the stone floor. Elaborate candelabras bathed the room in warm, flickering light and ghostly shadows. A pipe organ sat against the wall closest to her, and stepped over to run her fingers over its wood frame, leaving a trail in an otherwise undisturbed coating of dust. It clearly hadn't been used in some time.

But the candles were in use _now_ , she realized—only a minute too late.

"Might I ask," growled a male voice from across the room, "what you are doing with my instrument?"

She whirled around, her hands anchoring themselves on the keys behind her and filling the lair with a cacophonous rumble that made her cringe. "I—I'm sorry," she murmured, pulling her hands down. "I did not know that there was anyone here."

She stepped away from the instrument and stared into the pocket of darkness—a doorway?—where the voice had originated. An unmistakable white half-shell mask was the first thing to come into focus, and then the barely perceptible outline of a cloaked figure. Her heart leapt into her throat. Surely it wasn't possible…?

" _No one_ knows that there is anyone here," the man replied, "and I intend to keep it that way. Which is _most_ unfortunate for you, my dear." He stepped out into the flickering glow of candlelight, and her breath caught in her chest.

He was perhaps the most imposing figure she had ever seen. There was nothing unusual about his physique, per se, but his posture conveyed an aggressive power that filled the room, enhanced by his black cloak and fedora. He was all fire and shadow; the air around him practically crackled with danger. And then, of course, there was the world of horrors that she knew lay beneath his mask.

She had seen him once, nine months ago. She had been watching _Don Juan Triumphant_ from the wings, poised to help with costume changes, when he had murdered Ubaldo Piangi behind the set in order to take the tenor's place on stage. Only the week before, she had made the very cloak that allowed the Phantom to slip into the performance incognito; that had haunted her for months afterward, even once she was told that it had been burned alongside the other props and costumes from the show. Had Signor Piangi died in that cloak? she often wondered. It haunted her in wayward thoughts and dreams.

That cold-blooded murder was all she could think about now, especially as the Opera Ghost stalked the circumference of the room, tense and aloof, like a wolf circling its prey. Her heart pounded furiously against her ribcage as he began his approach toward her. She knew she should run, but she was utterly entranced.

He stopped within arm's reach. "Let me see your satchel," he instructed, and she found herself complying. He opened the worn leather bag and began to extract its contents, one by one, placing them on the organ bench after inspection: ivory wool shawl; near-empty coin purse; dog-eared copy of _Jane Eyre_ , translated into French; spools of thread; thimble; hair brush and pins; cheap but well-loved box of watercolors. "How many others came down here with you?" he asked as he took inventory.

"I'm alone," she assured him. She flinched when he pulled out her sketchbook, which he proceeded to examine at length, now and then glancing up at her curiously. Her teeth were chattering again, calling attention to the wet chill seeping from her waterlogged garments into her skin.

The Phantom moved on to a wooden pencil box, sliding it open to reveal her drawing tools: pencils, charcoal sticks, eraser, nib pens, ink, a penknife. "I am confiscating this," he said as he pocketed the knife. He soon appropriated a pair of scissors as well.

"Now," he said, dropping the empty satchel onto a chair, "tell me why you are here."

"To see whether the rumors were true," she said, "that the Opera Ghost left behind an underground residence. I was evicted from a boarding house yesterday, and I—I thought—"

"That you would live _here_? Among the sewers, in another person's home?"

She winced. Well, sure, it sounded ridiculous when he put it _that_ way. "Just for a short time, to get my affairs in order. I cannot risk sleeping in the atelier again if I want to keep my job or be considered for a promotion."

"The atelier. You work in costumes?"

She nodded. "So you see, I am rather in need of those supplies you have taken."

He had cocked his head and was studying her intently, as though trying to remember something. Suddenly, he gave her a leering smile. "The atelier!" he announced. "I thought I had seen you before. Yes, it was last month, after hours in the atelier. With the set designer."

A blush spread across her face. "That was intended to be a private exchange."

"Oh, an 'exchange'—is that what they're calling it these days? How persuasive that must be in applying for a promotion!"

Her jaw dropped, even as he moved forward, shrinking the distance between them to almost nothing. "That is _not_ how it happened! And _you_ , Monsieur, are a lecherous voyeur. You ought to be ashamed."

"I cannot help your fornicating in my opera house while I'm there," he replied, backing her into the wall. He placed a cool hand on the side of her neck, his thumb tracing her jawline as his other hand rested on her hip. "Now tell me"—his voice was low and silky now, his head bent to deliver the words close to her ear—"what does a man need to do to obtain such...favors?"

"I beg your _pardon_?"

"Since you seem so willing to prostitute yourself for special accommodations, I will consider letting you leave unharmed under a similar arrangement. And if it's a matter of compensation, I am happy to oblige."

Without a second thought, she slapped him across the cheek. He recoiled in stunned silence and brought a hand to his stinging flesh. Taking advantage of the distraction, she executed the first self-defense maneuver that came to mind and kneed him in the groin. Hard. He roared and doubled over in pain, leaving her to stumble back out into the canal.

She splashed into the thigh-deep water, her leg muscles straining to fight the resistance of her skirt and petticoat against forward motion. It felt like every bad dream she'd ever had wherein some unseen force prevented her from gaining momentum in a flight from imminent danger, only she could not wake up from this. She sensed the futility of her efforts even before his body slammed into hers from behind, plunging both of them into the water. While she struggled to pull her head above water, he straddled her legs with his own and hooked his arms around her elbows to pin back her limbs. She went limp, hoping that her cooperation meant not drowning.

Her lungs began to burn for several terrifying seconds before he hauled her to her feet and hoisted her over one shoulder. As she sputtered and gasped for air, he carried her back the way they'd come in order to dump her into the moored boat. He climbed onto the neighboring stone steps by the portcullis, and they both sat, staring at each other and catching their breath. She fought back tears from the combination of near-drowning and being handled like livestock. "You're a brute," she managed to rasp.

She could not be sure, but she thought she saw him flinch slightly. His fedora was gone, and without its shadow she could better see the sharp jawline and chiseled brow on the unmasked half of his face. Creamy skin was offset by the deep, shining mahogany of his hair, which had somehow escaped getting wet.

He had managed to shed several layers of clothing before coming into the water after her, leaving only a white silk shirt and black wool trousers. The manner in which the shirt, now sopping wet and translucent, clung to his lean build and slumped shoulders made him seem less phantasmal and more human—weary, even, as evidenced by his small sigh and the way his elbows rested on his knees. Save for his labored breathing, she would not have guessed from looking at him that he was the same man who had just carried her down the canal.

"I do not particularly wish to kill you," he said, running his fingers through his hair, "but as I would like my presence to remain undisclosed and you are apparently hell-bent on punishing me, you can see how I am at an impasse." He cocked his head. "You seem clever enough; offer me a solution that I can work with."

She narrowed her eyes. "I think that you already have a solution in mind, and you just want to see if I will make a better offer."

He shrugged. "And?"

"Ugh, fine." She rubbed her temples, willing her brain to work. "You let me stay here for a short time until I'm back on my feet, and I will do any housework or cooking that you need." He blinked at her expectantly, so she continued. "I will leave only to work, and I will not breathe a word of your presence to anyone. I am well aware of your exceptional spying and eavesdropping abilities." Still no response. "And, as you seem to be motivated largely by blind lust"—she stopped and swallowed, forcing out the words that churned in her stomach like bile—"I will also come to your bed. One time."

He let out a deep chuckle. "You attack me for presuming you a harlot, and then you offer your body as a bargaining chip."

"Self-preservation," she replied tartly. "I'm sure you understand."

"Fine. You will have your own quarters," he replied. "I will escort you to and from the upper levels or elsewhere as necessary. I have little desire for a maid or cook and plenty of spare time with which to fulfill those responsibilities, so that component of your proposal is negligible. And as for the promised physical exchange, I will determine the timing."

She frowned, turning his words over in her mind. The idea of labor-free room and board in exchange for one night of passion—which _she_ had been the one to propose—seemed almost reasonable, perhaps even generous given the man involved. What was he playing at?

"I have no choice but to accept your terms," she said. "But frankly, I don't see you letting me walk away once this is all over."

"A fair point. Let's play it by ear, shall we? In the meantime, just be glad that your time on earth has been extended. Your breach of verbal contract is punishable by death, of course.

"Now," he continued, rubbing his hands together, "a hot bath and dry clothes are in order. Our agreement is moot if you die of pneumonia."

* * *

 _Once again, commentary is greatly appreciated! The next few chapters are mostly done, but I'll be spacing them out a bit more, time-wise._


	3. The Upper Hand

_I've been avoiding other people's Phantom fics while writing this story, so as not to inadvertently steal someone else's idea(s) and/or be intimidated by them and lose steam. Now that I pretty much know where my fic is headed, I've started exploring others and hope to become more immersed in the community over time. I promise I'm not completely antisocial!_

* * *

While his new houseguest bathed, the Phantom changed into dry clothes and hid his kitchen knives, convinced that he could not trust her with his life in the slightest. It was undoubtedly a mutual feeling; he had heard the click of the lock after he escorted her into the bathroom attached to her quarters.

And yet, here he was, inviting her into his home! He chuckled to himself, certain he must be on the brink of madness. No tumble in bed was worth this, and he regretted even propositioning her in the first place; he had been so long without non-sexual female contact that he hardly knew how to interact. (He had hardly known how to interact even before that, if he were to be honest with himself.) And his accusation of her promiscuity—well, that was just to gain the upper hand. He did feel some guilt over that. But without that component of their agreement, there was nothing in it for him, and he was not about to broadcast his desperation.

He could not articulate why, but he wanted her to stay. There was something sharp and bracing about her that held his attention. And if she stayed, then he did not have to choose whether—or how—to die.

Though if she kept up her exasperating and painful defiance, he might anyway.

Regardless, having a houseguest gave him a new sense of purpose, and he busied himself with preparations: tidying the drawing room, changing linens, setting out a paltry supper in the small dining area that adjoined his sitting room. He was topping off two glasses of Côtes-du-Rhône when she appeared in the doorway of the dining room. He had given her two sets of clothes from the wardrobe in her assigned boudoir: a wool skirt and bodice in midnight blue, and a white silk nightgown paired with a dressing gown of pale-pink wool and lace that he hoped would counter the damp chill in the air. He had slid clean undergarments and stockings between the two outfits so as to minimize her embarrassment. He might have also been ashamed, once, but he had since grown rather accustomed to the sight of womanly underthings.

It was the first time he had touched the wardrobe, intended for Christine, since he had stocked it, imagining a future in which his angel would emerge from her room in the delicate, tailored garments to join him—her husband—at the organ to sing. It had never been his intention to let another woman wear the clothes, but the newcomer was so visibly shaking of cold that his resolve had softened. He had presented the garments with the explanation that her new quarters had been set up to accommodate a prior female guest, and with a solemn nod, she had responded, "Christine," as though the entire Opera Populaire had been privy to the occasion. It was the second punch to the gut that the day had brought him.

Now, he saw that she had opted to wear the nightdress and dressing gown. Their pale colors and finery were a sharp contrast to the utilitarian black skirt and bodice that she had arrived in, of which she seemed fully aware, hiding behind a pile of wet clothes and boots and shifting her weight from side to side. Her dark brown hair had been washed and combed, then pulled back into the same tight bun that had crowned her head before. "Is there someplace where I might dry these things?" she asked.

"Yes, of course." He set the wine bottle on a nearby sideboard and went about setting up a wooden clothes horse in front of the sitting room fire, noticing as he did so that her nightclothes were a few inches too short, revealing her bare feet and ankles. While she arranged her damp clothes by the fire, he found a pair of silk slippers for her feet. Then he set to lowering the portcullis, its metal wheel-and-pulley system squeaking and clanging after months of inactivity.

When all was finished, he gestured to the food on the dining table. "I thought you might need supper."

She hesitated, glancing down at her nightclothes. "I had just assumed I'd be off to bed—shall I change into the gown?"

He waved her words away. "No need for such formalities tonight. Come, sit."

He pulled out a chair for his guest and sat opposite her, apologizing for the hastily assembled spread: a warmed-up cassoulet prepared the previous day, half a baguette, a hunk of cheese, and a few small carrots and pearl onions he had sautéed in butter only moments before.

"This is _more_ than enough," she told him as she finished spooning food onto her plate. She spread her napkin across her lap and looked at him pointedly. "That is to say, these are excellent accommodations for a prison."

He peered into his wine glass, swirling the garnet-red liquid within. "I have put significant effort into my home," he said, "but yes—I suppose it has always been a prison of sorts. Tell me, how did you find it?"

She explained her efforts and good fortune, and he informed her that the cordoned-off hatchway was actually a ruse, a former floor grate that would only lead a trespasser—assuming they could somehow bypass the padlocked chains—to a different, walled-off section of the underground. He had even placed the sign from "the management." The true entrance—the one she had inadvertently discovered—he had sealed with a grate stolen from the fake opening in hopes that it would be overlooked.

"Clever," she commended, tearing off a piece of bread.

"Yes, well, apparently not enough. Now I'll have to reevaluate it, and perhaps the second entrance as well."

"There's a second entrance?"

"Yes. A drier one, at that."

"God damn it."

He clucked his tongue and admonished, "Such language. Do you kiss your paramour with that mouth?"

She had just stuffed the bread into her mouth and could only scowl at him while she finished chewing. The baguette was so dense that it took her a comically long time to masticate and swallow, and for the first time in ages he felt the faint stirrings of laughter in his chest.

Finally, she worked through the baguette and chased it with a gulp of wine. "I fail to see how my physical intimacies are any business of a stranger," she said. "Are you even going to tell me your name?"

He blinked at her. Had anyone bothered to ask him that before? Had Christine? "Erik," he said. The name felt foreign to his tongue.

"Josephine Arnaud. You can call me Josie, if you like."

"Absolutely not; it's unbecoming and juvenile. You will remain Josephine."

She rolled her eyes as though she had expected no less from him, and then she picked up her knife and fork in order to turn her full attention to her plate. He took the opportunity to study her at length, unable to keep from comparing her with Christine. They had almost the same hair—brunette and curly—but Josephine's was coarser and a darker, more ashy brown, with wispy corkscrews escaping the bun. Where his angel of music had been doe eyes and soft lips, delicate curves and rosy colors, Josephine was taut muscle and long, sharp limbs, with pale skin and a slightly elongated face. Her high nose and oft-pursed lips leant her an almost noble air, though everything else about her suggested otherwise. She looked older than Christine—perhaps emphasized by the tired sobriety of her expressions—and plainer, too, though not entirely unattractive.

They were silent for the remainder of the meal. She avoided his gaze, but it was easy to tell from her increasingly sluggish movements and the periodic shuttering of her eyelids that she was exhausted. When she cleared her plate and announced that she would be going to bed, he could do nothing but stand and lead her out into the hallway. _Reestablish authority_ , his brain urged, and he hastily grabbed her wrist as she reached for the door handle of her room. "So certain you're going to your own bed tonight, are you?" he asked.

Josephine halted and turned to face him, frowning. "You truly want to do this now?"

"Well now, let's see." He pulled her in so that her chest was almost touching his own, noting how her eyes widened as his lithe fingers moved to undo the first two buttons of her dressing gown. He then released the top two buttons of the nightgown below to expose her collarbone, tracing its outline with the pad of his thumb. He found himself wishing that her sharp intake of breath came from a place of desire and not of fear.

As suddenly as he had begun his ministrations, Erik dropped his hands to his sides and took a step back. "No, you're right," he said, feigning disinterest. "Not tonight. Off to bed, then, Mademoiselle Arnaud."

She complied, but as she stepped into her room, she turned her head back to glare at him. "There's no need to parade the fact that you have the upper hand. I am very much aware." She slammed the door behind her.

For a moment, he stared at the space that she had just occupied. Then he took his unfinished wine to the sitting room to mull over the day's developments. He had a feeling that the events in his life were gradually slipping out of his control, a state that would have driven him to swift, aggressive action only a year prior. Certainly he would not have let Josephine's hostility go unanswered then. Now, though? He hardly cared. It was as though his long-standing ambition and productivity had vacated, leaving him with only a vague sense of things happening in his periphery.

But...there had been that flicker of motivation that came with Josephine's arrival. It was intriguing, and he was compelled to pursue it further—which would be tricky, because instinct told him that confining her to his underground prison was going to fare as well as keeping a polecat in a hatbox.

Erik drained the last of his wine and went off in search of a padlock.

* * *

Christine often came to him in dreams. Tonight was no exception, but this particular dream ventured into uncharted territory with a vision of her emerging from her room—now Josephine's—in nothing but a silken white bedsheet wound about her body like a towel, her chocolate-brown curls cascading onto scandalously bare arms and shoulders. "Have you seen my pink dressing gown?" she asked him, eyes wide and innocent. "I fear it has disappeared from my wardrobe."

"I—I gave it away," he whispered from his place by the organ. "Please forgive me."

She considered this, nodding slowly before she approached him and took his face into her hands. "Have you forgotten about me already, angel?"

He shook his head. "Of course not," he said. "Never." He removed her hands from his cheeks and pulled her to his chest, breathing in the rose-laced scent of her hair. She lifted her chin to regard him through fluttering lashes, and he was done for. He pressed his mouth urgently to hers and gathered her in welcoming arms to carry her off to his bedroom.

And then he was awake, panting and slightly sweating in the darkness of that same room. _Oh, sweet torture_ , he thought. His skin clung to the silk pyjama set he wore, and and he sat up groggily to peel off the shirt.

The small bronze bell mounted to his wall jingled, startling him into full consciousness. Long ago, as an added security measure, he had rigged his doors and walls with copper wires and pulleys that fed into a standard bell pull system. This was the first time it had been triggered by someone else, and there was no doubt who that someone was. He retrieved his mask from the bedside table and padded across the room to crack the door open.

His eyes had grown sharp in the darkness after so many years, and with the aid of Josephine's light-colored clothing, he could easily make out her form as she inched down the hallway toward the sitting room, the long fingers of one hand outstretched to feel for obstacles. In her other hand was the brass lamp from her bedroom, unlit. Had there been any doubt that she was intending to escape, the satchel strapped to her chest confirmed it.

He was not surprised, but he _was_ irritated. Best, then, to demonstrate to her just who she was dealing with. He waited to step out of his quarters until she had gone into the sitting room, and then he crept over to wait just outside the doorway. A pale flare of lamplight stretched from the room out into the hall.

When he peered around the door frame, she was approaching the portcullis with her back to him; her illuminated lamp sat on the tea table. He slipped into the room and crossed to the table, his stealth aided by his unintentional lack of footwear. Josephine had dropped to one knee to examine the spoked metal wheel that lowered and raised the gate; no doubt she was realizing that it was held fast by a hefty, padlocked chain. He smiled with satisfaction and deftly blew out her lamp, throwing the room into darkness once more.

He heard her sharp intake of breath, saw her spring to her feet, but she remained still after that, presumably listening for him. He was suddenly thankful for his embarrassing state of partial undress, which allowed him to close the gap between himself and his escapee without the rustle of various layers of clothing.

Within seconds, he had her pressed against the portcullis from behind. She cried out as he used the full weight of his torso to hold her in place, anchoring his knee between her legs and pinning her arms up against the metal grid. Her hair brushed against his face, and in the darkness it was too easy to imagine that it was still Christine's body pressed against his. The scent and feel of Josephine's freshly scrubbed skin did little to diffuse his lingering desire. Her right cheek rested against the cold iron, leaving her left ear exposed for him to murmur, "Are you afraid of the dark, Josephine?"

He held fast as she wriggled to test her bonds. "Not afraid," she said, though her voice cracked slightly, "but I don't like it."

"And why is that?" Even pressed to her back, he could feel the rapid pounding of her heart and the tension in her muscles.

"I need light to draw," she replied, the words coming out in a rush. "Or paint, or sew. To do anything worthwhile, really."

"But oh, Josephine," he breathed. "There is so much one can _feel_ and _learn_ in the darkness with the other senses heightened." He shifted both of her wrists to his right hand so that his left was free to curl gently around her neck, noting its pulse and the way she swallowed at his touch. "Even now, I can sense how terrified you are."

She stiffened. "Yes, well, _I_ can feel that you are in some manner of undress, and that makes me extremely uncomfortable."

"Then kindly refrain from rousing me from my bed with these nocturnal shenanigans!" he snapped. Reverie broken, he released her from his grasp. "Go to sleep, Josephine, and stop trying to outmaneuver me in my own home. My patience wanes quickly, and you will rue the moment that it runs out."

"Yes, Erik." She exhaled a sigh of relief and peeled herself from the icy portcullis. Still self-conscious about his lack of shirt, he kept the lamp off and led her by the arm to her room. They parted with a minimal exchange of words, each annoyed with the other, and he paced the lair a while before returning to his bedroom.

Tomorrow, he knew, they would have to leave the relative security of his home so she could work. What happened when one released a polecat into an opera house? No, that metaphor was getting more terrible by the minute. The fact was, he had no idea what to expect. And some small part of him, deep down, rather liked it.


	4. The Morning After

_An eternally grateful shout-out to the lovely **EspoirDio** for her insightful reviews! I think I needed those in order to keep going._

* * *

 _Chapter 4: The Morning After_

Josephine woke, with a start, to darkness and several sharp knocks on her door. Everything about her felt unfamiliar: the delicate silk clothing her skin; the soft, lush bedding enveloping her limbs; and, most disconcertingly, the soreness that seemed to pervade every muscle and bone in her body.

"Josephine!" bellowed a male voice on the opposite side of the door. "You need to be at work today, I presume?"

She let out a small groan, overwhelmed by exhaustion and pain and, as the events of the previous twelve hours flooded her memory, regret. This was not the first time that a rash decision of hers had backfired spectacularly, but then, each impulsivity of hers had seemed to outdo the previous one since...well, since things had happened to make her stop caring so much about consequences.

She could not understand why Erik was waking her at such small hours until she remembered that she was underground. She had no idea, in fact, what time it was. "I'm up," she called out, her voice still thick with sleep, "but I cannot see a thing."

She was met with momentary silence, and then she heard the door creak open. Erik's arm slipped in, bearing the now-illuminated lamp she had left on the tea table the night before, and set it on the floor before he pulled the door shut again. The room and its contents came into focus.

She climbed out of bed at a geriatric pace, her movements punctuated by pained whimpers. In time, she recounted that she had slipped repeatedly in the cellars, fallen off a ladder, run through thigh-deep water only to be tackled and thrown into a boat, and been slammed against a metal gate. She touched the side of her head that had collided with the portcullis and winced; indeed, there was a bump there.

She had not initially intended to escape. She could have handled what she had presumed to be their intended arrangement: a period of time as roommates of sorts, keeping a respectable distance, with one isolated night of passion that she planned to see through with copious amounts of alcohol. But this cat-and-mouse game that he seemed intent on playing? Intolerable. So instead of going to bed, she had sat fuming and fighting sleep until long after she heard Erik close the door to his room.

Even now, she shuddered at how terrifying it had been to be caught. Her terror began giving way to irritation, though; how had he _known_? It might have even been admirable had it not been to her direct disadvantage.

She washed her face at a gilt and porcelain washstand before collecting the lamp, which she positioned on the dressing table as she sat and frowned at her reflection. She had forgotten to unpin her hair before bed, and the coffee-colored tresses so resembled a bird's nest that she would not have been surprised to see a pigeon taking up residence. She removed the pins to tame the mess with a hairbrush, after which it went back into a bun.

She could not help but run her fingers over the various contents of the dressing table: fancy hair pins, nail file, hand mirror. She toyed with a glass perfume bottle that smelled of sweet rosewater and jasmine, turning the vessel over in her fingers a few times before returning it to its place on the dressing-table.

 _Christine_. The entire room was an homage to the leading lady of the stage...the leading lady of Erik's very existence.

A pang of envy that wracked her chest as she surveyed the boudoir. Was this what it was like to be unconditionally loved and adored? To be provided for? _How easily you overlook his possessiveness and violence_ , she chastised herself, but the traces of envy remained. And in that moment of weakness, she decided to open the wardrobe.

"Oh!" she cried softly, taking in the sheer number and luxury of items contained therein: skirts and bodices, jackets and capes, nightgowns and stockings, bustles and corsets. Her fingers grazed silk, satin, wool, velvet, cashmere, lace—everything nicer than anything she had ever worn. She lingered in particular on a breathtaking peignoir made of translucent rose silk and trimmed with gold lace and ribbon, until she became dissuaded by how little she knew of its history. Had Christine worn any of the garments that had been so obviously culled for her particular use? Or had they remained untouched since their installment, serving as an unsettling memorial to a love that could never be?

She did not intend to wear the clothes. They were too luxurious for her, and it would not do to revive the spirit of a past love. But when she went to change out of her nightgown, she realized that her own garments were in the sitting room, likely still damp and malodorous. She sighed and resigned herself to wearing the midnight blue skirt and bodice that Erik had selected, as they seemed to be the least ostentatious of the available options.

"It suits you," he said appraisingly when she found him in the sitting room. He was enjoying a cup of coffee and a newspaper—where did these things even _come_ from? she resolved to ask later—and he looked as resplendent as ever in his finely cut tailcoat and slacks.

"Coffee?" he asked. He gestured to the blue-and-gold porcelain serving set laid out on the tea table. She nodded, watching him spring from his chair to pour the beverage. He was practically thrumming with energy, and she eyed him with suspicion as she accepted the proffered cup.

"How are you so awake?" she grumbled, topping off the brew with a generous pour of milk. "By all accounts, you seem like a night owl. You cannot be both a night owl _and_ a morning person."

He refilled his own cup and held it up for illustration. "I _can_ , however, be an ardent worshiper of coffee, that most exemplary of beverages, and it would not do to relegate such a fine specimen to a single time of day."

"Touché, and cheers." She clinked her coffee mug against his before raising it to her lips. She could not be sure, but she thought that she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

Their remaining interactions that morning were perfunctory; Josephine had just enough time to inhale her coffee and some bread with preserves before demanding that they rush off to work. The portcullis was already open for the day, so she could not hope for any clues as to the whereabouts of the padlock key. She remained obedient in the boat as Erik rowed it through the underground canals, and she waited patiently for him to ascend the ladder before she followed. There would be no water-related escapes in her near future, she had decided.

When it came time to part ways, he directed her to a staircase that would take her to a janitorial closet a few doors down from the atelier. "I will be here to collect you at the end of the work day," he said. "I have eyes and ears throughout this building; do not make me remind you of that fact."

She began to climb the stairs, her back to him as she replied, "Right. You will lurk and stalk me, and I will carry on with my employment as though I am not being stalked. As one does. Just a normal Wednesday."

When she turned her head for his reply, he was gone. She let out a small cry of exasperation and let herself into the closet, where she barreled through housekeeping supplies and exited on the opposite side so quickly that she crashed into a man's torso.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she cried out. It was only when she stepped back a few paces that she realized who he was, and she felt compelled to apologize again. "Please forgive me, monsieur le vicomte. I fear my brain is addled with sleeplessness today."

Vicomte Raoul de Chagny gave her a wan smile. "And would that also explain why you were in a janitor's closet?"

She felt her cheeks flush. Up close, he was handsomer and more imposing than she had realized, and she instantly understood his appeal. He felt safe—not necessarily in a warm, gentle sort of way, but in the sense that he would refuse to tolerate a threat. _Tell him_ , she thought. _Tell him, and this could all be over. The Phantom of the Opera is here inside this building._ But therein lay the problem with that plan of action.

"Shortcut to wardrobe," she explained. "There's a staircase in there."

His smile faltered. He peered around her to look in the closet, but she was already shutting the door behind her. "Funny," he said. "I thought I knew all of the ins and outs of this building."

She forced herself to smile. "Well, I can't imagine what occasion a vicomte and patron might have to visit a janitor's closet. Now if you'll excuse me, monsieur le vicomte, I must get to work."

"Of course. I hope you have a better day and a good night's rest, Mademoiselle—"

"Arnaud. Josephine Arnaud."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please, allow me to escort you to your destination." He offered her his arm, and she felt compelled to take it despite the fact that said destination was a mere ten yards away. One did not turn down a patron.

Her self-appointed escort walked her to the doorway of the atelier, whereupon they exchanged polite farewells and he took his leave. She felt all eyes on her as she entered the room, but she paid heed only to those of the wardrobe supervisor, Mademoiselle Perotte, who occupied the work table closest to the door and seemed entirely unimpressed by the vicomte's appearance.

"Mademoiselle Arnaud," she said, stopping the beadwork on a bodice to stand and address the younger woman. "How kind of you to grace us with your presence."

Josephine glanced at the clock across the room; she was a mere two minutes late. "I apologize, Mademoiselle. I was slightly detained by the vicomte and did not think it wise to be dismissive of our largest patron."

Her supervisor frowned, emphasizing the wrinkles between and above her eyebrows that had begun lengthening and multiplying with age. Aside from the errant gray hair in her otherwise raven-black locks, her tight bun and simple black dress mirrored Josephine's typical appearance, and the latter often felt, in conversations with her superior, as though she were looking at herself twenty years into the future-an observation not wholly inaccurate. Josie was in a prime spot to take over the position someday, her knowledge of which felt both comforting and isolating.

Mlle. Perotte knew it, too, and was as accommodating of Josephine as a woman of her fastidiousness could be when her actions went unnoticed. She would not, however, make large concessions when the whole of the atelier was watching. "Perhaps you ought to consider arriving early for once," she said, "and you might not be impacted by such delays."

"Yes, Mademoiselle." Never mind that Josephine stayed later most days than the others. They erupted into murmured chatter—likely about her—and she crossed the room to take up her usual position at the work table in the far back corner, where she could see the workshop goings-on at all times. "Good morning," she crooned affectionately to the naked dress form at her station.

"She's looking dapper this morning," said Claudette, who sat at the opposite corner of the work table that they shared.

"Yes, I tacked on a brand-new layer of linen yesterday," Josephine replied, giving the mannequin a tender rub. "Well, new to her, anyway. Now her papier-maché isn't showing through the tears. Alas, if I only had something for her to wear besides this seafoam green tulle." She gestured toward the half-finished skirt on the table in front of her.

"I would give my right arm to never see tulle again. At least the ballet is only two weeks away."

"But then we have the costumes for the new production of _Orpheus and Eurydice_. And where there's an opera, there's a ballet. And where there's a ballet, there's—"

"—tulle," Claudette finished with a sigh. "Yes, I know. But at least there will be other fabrics to break up the monotony."

"One can only hope."

The morning was a productive one in the atelier, alive with sewing machines whirring, clouds of starchy tulle being unfurled and manipulated, scissors snipping. Idle chatter was kept to a rare minimum until near lunchtime, when Mlle. Perotte was asked to step out into the hall for a consultation. Almost immediately, the work tables next to Josephine's came to life.

Blonde, small-faced Agnes leaned toward her, speaking just loudly enough to be heard across the room. "How in heaven's name did you come by such a dress, Josie?" she asked, her syrupy tone belied by its own implicit accusations. "What a fine thing for a seamstress to have."

Josephine was peripherally aware of several others craning their necks around mannequins and sewing machines to regard her. "My brother sent it," she said, keeping her eyes on her work.

"Your brother? The one working the docks in Marseille?" Agnes snorted. "I doubt that any self-respecting purveyor of such garments would allow a man reeking of fish within ten yards of that dress."

"Yes, do tell us the _real_ source," chimed in Agnes' companion, Louise. "It would be awfully convenient to know which of the gentlemen here at the Opera Populaire are so easily swayed by physical gratitude these days. Is the vicomte your latest conquest? Or has the set designer come back into the picture?" A contingent of the room erupted into nervous giggles, which dissolved swiftly when Mlle. Perotte stepped back into the workshop.

Josephine kept her eyes trained on her work, but her cheeks burned, and she hated herself for letting the teasing affect her as it still did. It was not the first time she had been shamed thus, nor would it be the last, and she understood why the girls lashed out at her. That did not, however, make it any easier to bear. She forced herself to daydream of the Jardin des Tuileries in the spring, inserting herself and her little box of watercolors among the tulips and lemonade stands and puppet shows. The fantasy helped her forge ahead until lunchtime, when she was relieved to see the others breaking up and disseminating with little to no regard for her or her new frock.

"Smoke break?" Claudette asked.

"No cigarettes," she answered regretfully. It was true; she could not afford them.

"We'll share. Come on; you look like you need it." Claudette grabbed her by the elbow, and before Josephine could concoct a reasonable excuse not to go outside, she found herself being swept out into the small outdoor courtyard where the two of them often retreated for fresh air.

Claudette took a few drags of a cigarette and handed it over. "The dress _is_ lovely," she said. "I had planned to ask you about it in confidence. Is it really from your brother?"

"Yes, and I only wore it today out of desperation. In fact, I ought to send it back."

"Oh no, don't do that! And what on earth happened to your black dresses? No, don't tell me; we have precious few minutes out here, and I must make my case for your inviting your brother to visit. He sounds deliciously generous."

They spent the next few minutes passing the cigarette back and forth, Josephine dodging questions as she maintained constant surveillance of the perimeter. There was no sign of her masked captor. It was broad daylight, with throngs of passersby, and she knew that there was a police station about seven blocks away; perhaps she could actually make it? No, she _had_ to make it, she determined, because a failed effort would likely be her _last_ effort.

Claudette took one last drag and crushed the cigarette butt beneath the heel of her boot. "Back to fight with the tulle," she announced.

"Go on without me," Josephine replied. "I need to stretch my legs for a bit, and perhaps get some lunch."

The moment they parted, she erupted into as brisk a stride as possible, not wanting to call attention to herself by running. She had traveled five blocks down the busy Boulevard Haussmann and turned onto Rue Chauchat, where she could just make out the police station two blocks north, when a hand gripped her arm from behind with such force that she gasped—or would have, had another hand not clamped over her mouth.

"Do not even _think_ about calling for help," Erik hissed into her ear. "I could dispatch you and vanish before anyone had a chance to react."

She considered calling his bluff, but her mind flashed back to the swift murder of Joseph Buquet during a sold-out performance. She nodded her assent. He uncovered her mouth, moving his hand to her shoulder to steer her away from the station. She snorted when he proffered his arm like a gentleman, but she took it anyway. "This is folly," she chastised as he led her down the street. "You'll be spotted."

"You left me no choice. The alternative is a manhunt."

"That would be your fault, not mine."

He pulled her down a narrow alley and around to the back of a building, where he spun her to face him. "I have spent the last nine months making an effort to cause no offense," he spat, jabbing a finger into her face. " _You_ are the one who disturbed that peace, and you were not only spared your life, but also given free and comfortable accommodations. I am no saint, but give me some credit." He bent down to open the manhole at their feet. "Get in. We're going to address these infractions of yours once and for all."


	5. Truce

Erik stood by the open manhole, waiting for Josephine to follow his order and descend into the sewers. Instead, she remained still, her expression twisting into something like revulsion.

"Do you honestly want some kind of recognition," she asked, "for going a whole nine months without _murdering_ anybody?"

His jaw went rigid. It was displaced anger, he knew, but he could not help but resent her for raking up his past, causing those shameful, painful transgressions to bubble up to the surface like fresh blood. And, though he knew it was not her fault, it had disgusted him to hear her exchanging pleasantries with the vicomte. The man was a perpetual thorn in his side.

Worse still, he suspected that the police would be upon him at any moment. Just before turning into the alley, he had met the gaze of a woman gaping at him from a distance, and she had turned to bustle ominously toward the police station. He could not afford to stall. Neither did he want to sling Josephine over his shoulder again, and to resort to threats and terror would only serve to reinforce her presumptions of him. No, he must be...civil.

"I am not a murderer anymore," he managed to say quietly.

She shook her head. "Once a murderer, always a—"

He pressed two fingers to her lips to cut her off. "I would ask that you give careful consideration before uttering such damning words. Then, you can tell me whether you truly believe that there is no path to redemption for a man haunted by regret." He withdrew his hand. His request had enough of an effect that she did not speak for a few seconds, though he could not be certain what was running through her mind.

"If you are to be believed," she finally said, "then the threats you have used to keep me here are empty, and I have no reason to fear you."

"They were possibly exaggerated, but not empty," he replied quickly, the urgency to disappear growing stronger with every second. "If I have to use force or other methods of containment to keep you from inciting a manhunt, I will. But I am tired of this unending game of cat and mouse, and I fear that one or both of us will eventually go mad from it. I propose a truce."

"Go on," she prodded, her voice laced with skepticism. A strong wind blew through the alley, and she pulled her shawl so tightly around her shoulders that her torso appeared to collapse in on itself.

Without even thinking, Erik removed his wool cloak and wrapped it around her. She regarded him with surprise as he fastened the front closure, his fingers brushing against her exposed clavicle. "I will work out a plan of departure for myself," he said. "Once the terms of our agreement are met and you can afford new lodging, I will release you. At that point, you can announce my presence to all of Paris, because I will be gone. But until then, these escape attempts must stop."

She pulled the cloak against herself more readily than he would have expected. "Fine," she said. "Then I want to be treated with respect. I know what kind of arrangement we made, but I will not have you lording it over me every waking second."

From a distance, he heard a female voice call, "He went this way, officers!"

"Fine," he said with an absent wave of his hand. "Agreed. Now _please_ , we must go. I will take you back to work."

She eyed the sewer opening warily. Then, as though it were a gift to him from the heavens, the skies parted and cold raindrops spilled onto the earth. Josephine emitted a small yelp and complied, descending the manhole ladder quickly to escape the rain. He climbed in after her, satisfied to be under the cover of darkness once more.

* * *

Josephine had resigned herself to the fact that her tenuous situation with Erik could only end violently. His proposed truce, therefore, had been an unexpected but welcome alternative. She had to entertain the possibility that he was lying, of course, but somehow she had a feeling that he wasn't—either that, or she was subconsciously deluding herself.

Either way, she could already feel herself starting to relax as she waited for him to climb down the ladder into the sewer, perhaps aided by the security and warmth of the large cloak now blanketing her person. She rather liked his cloak.

From his position on the ladder, Erik replaced the heavy manhole cover, eclipsing the weak light that had enabled her to make out her surroundings. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but they did not. "Erik, I can't see," she whispered.

She heard him step off the ladder onto the damp stone floor, and then she felt his fingertips brush against her sleeve, trailing down it to find her hand. He locked his fingers with hers. "Trust me," he said, and he led her westward through the tunnels.

About a minute in, he advised, "You'll want to pick up your skirts. I would hate for you to have to change out of your dress and give those harpies even a modicum of satisfaction."

"Ah. So you did hear that." She cursed as she stubbed her toe on God only knew what, sprawling forward for only a half second before he caught her and set her moving again as though nothing of note had happened.

"Your fellow seamstresses are not particularly kind. Especially that little one who looks like an agitated dormouse."

"Agnes," she confirmed. "Yes, she despises me. Her disdain has spread to the other girls as well."

"Why should they dislike you?"

"I...slept with her fiancé."

A pause. Then, "The set designer?"

"No, someone else."

In the silence that followed, she wished terribly that she could see his face. She had not supposed that any sort of moral ineptitude could offend him, an assumption that had emboldened her to confess more bluntly than she would have otherwise. The longer he kept his steady pace without reply, though, the more she felt the need to explain herself—until she realized that, by remaining silent, he was placing the ball in her court. She could change the subject and they would never speak of it again. Yet, for some reason, she felt compelled to add, "It was a product of circumstance."

"Oh?"

"A mutual attraction, pursued more heartily on his end than on mine, and I was too vulnerable at the time to be selfless. I would even go so far as to say I was reckless." She sighed. "I still am, a little."

She could not tell whether it was her eyes adjusting or the slight reintroduction of light into the sewer—probably a combination of both—but she was now able to make out shapes and lines in the darkness. His mask glowed a soft white in her peripheral vision. "I see," he said.

"Somehow they patched things up and are still intending to wed," she continued. "Thus, I have become the wicked temptress who seduced him from an otherwise idyllic relationship."

She did not tell him what always rested at the back of her mind on days like this: that it was better, in the end, for these women not to like her. Then she could remain safely detached as they launched giddily into new courtships and engagements and marriages, leaving the Opera's employ—as they always did, inevitably—to start a family while she stayed behind. She would be under no obligation to call on them and remark on the loveliness of their wedding gifts or the cleanliness of their households or the size of their bellies, swollen with child, while something inside of her died a little more each time.

At the very least, in Agnes' case, perhaps the knowledge of Josephine's punishment and ridicule would provide some small comfort in the wake of her marriage, which was sure to be marked by resentment and jealousy.

Erik was still silent, his hold on her hand firm but dispassionate as they walked side by side. "I suppose I earned the girls' vitriol," she said to dispel the unsettling quiet. "But some days, the guilt alone is unbearable without that added weight. I do not think it shall ever subside completely."

"'One can no more prevent the mind from returning to an idea than the sea from returning to a shore,'" he said. "'In the case of the sailor, this is called a tide; in the case of the guilty, it is called remorse. God upheaves the soul as well as the ocean.'"

"Victor Hugo," she said with a faint smile. "One of my favorite writers."

He nodded. "In a sense, we are not so very different, you and I."

She bristled and pulled her hand away from his. "I highly doubt that," she replied tersely. "Are we nearly to the opera house?"

"Yes, very close. This way." He rounded a corner, and they spent the rest of the walk with barely another word exchanged.

* * *

Josephine worked late that day, to the point where only she and Mlle. Perrotte remained in wardrobe. Today it was a stalling tactic on her part, but the two of them were usually the last to leave, which she suspected was more a product of their solitude in life than their senior status within the atelier. Often, they regarded each other fleetingly in the evening hours after the other women had gone, their hands preoccupied with stitching but their eyes voicing unspoken questions. _Was your heart broken, too?_ Josephine wanted to ask her elder. _Will I ever become complacent?_

"Ah, ladies!" An animated male voice cracked across the room like a whip, startling them both from their sewing. Josephine's eyes widened in pleasant surprise to find the round, almost cherubic face of Victor Foss, associate set designer, beaming at her from the doorway. "Good evening to both of you, and apologies for the interruption, Mlle. Perrotte. I had hoped to speak to Mlle. Arnaud about a matter of some importance."

"Shall we go out into the hall?" Josephine suggested to him.

"No, do not leave on my behalf," the other woman said. "Supper calls, so I shall leave you to your discussion." She collected her cloak and hat, passing by Victor with pursed lips and what Josephine perceived to be an air of disapproval. She wondered just how far the rumors of her reputation had spread.

Victor crossed the room to plant his hands warmly on Josephine's shoulders and give her a quick peck on each cheek. "How are you, darling? It has been too long, I'm afraid."

"Indeed," she said. "What brings you here? Your superior will hardly approve of your consorting with me."

"Yes, well, that's what I intended to talk to you about. It seems that our mutual acquaintance has defected on rather short notice to a German opera house. The nerve! But good riddance, I say; Paul was always an arrogant bastard."

She had met Victor through Paul Gamet, the set designer with whom Erik—to her mortification—had spotted her. She had turned up unannounced one evening at the tavern that Paul frequented, desperately needing distraction after a terrible day, and discovered only too late that he had been discussing design ideas with Victor over drinks. Victor, bless his heart, had dissolved the awkward tension by inviting her to join them.

She had liked him instantly. He had twinkling blue eyes and dirty blond curls that leant him an unimpeachable sweetness, but more than that, he made her feel worthwhile. He had sought her opinions on their designs, first as a talking point but then in earnest once she had responded with insightful commentary. At one point, he even had her drafting suggestions in her sketchbook. Paul had barely been able to contain his disapproval, and that night had been the beginning of their quick and dramatic split.

She was surprised but not sorry upon hearing the news of his departure. "What does that mean for the role of lead set designer, then?" she asked.

"You're looking at him."

"Wonderful! Congratulations."

"Yes, thank you. But that leaves me in a lurch, with no help as _Orpheus and Eurydice_ goes into production. I need to present designs in less than two weeks." He was fidgeting with some kind of booklet, and only when his hands stopped moving for a second did she see that it was the libretto for the opera. "My expertise is really in construction and mechanics," he went on. "Paul was the more artistic one, as you know. But you! You have an eye for this, Josephine. He would never admit it, but Paul based the gypsy camp in _Il Trovatore_ on your sketches in the tavern."

"I _knew_ it! Bastard."

"Josephine, I so desperately need a stand-in assistant for this production. Please do not make me beg."

She gaped at him. "Me? What is it that you think I can contribute?"

"There are five sets, so five sketches are all I need. You imagine them, and I'll make them real. Here's the libretto." He pressed the booklet into her hand. "What do you say?"

She stared down at the libretto, thinking of all the times when she had wished so desperately for artistic license, or for a ticket out of the atelier. The former had literally just been handed to her, and if she succeeded, the latter had to be a possibility, right?

"Absolutely," she told him.

"Hallelujah!" he cried. "A goddess and a savior!" He hugged her, and then he picked her up and spun her so joyously that she could not help but laugh.

They were startled into separation by a clattering sound behind them; one of the dress forms had fallen to the floor. "Our enthusiasm has upended the mannequins!" Victor joked. He walked over to pick it up, and with his back to her she glanced furtively around the room; certainly the dress form could not have toppled over on its own accord. Sure enough, she spotted—with a start—a hunched, black-clad figure in the rafters above Victor's head. Her pulse quickened.

"Well, I ought to close up shop for the evening," she announced. "I will start on this tonight."

Victor flashed her another one of his beguiling smiles, and they exchanged fond farewells as he took his leave. She waited a few seconds before dashing over to close the workshop door, after which she whirled around and addressed the rafters. "Are you insane?" she hissed. "You'll get caught, hiding out in plain view like that and making a spectacle!"

"Oh, I fully intended for you to see me." There was a movement of shadows overhead, and Erik swung down from a wooden beam to land on his feet in front of her. She was impressed enough to comment on his acrobatics, but the look on his face stopped her. "You gave me no choice but to intervene," he growled, jabbing his index finger uncomfortably close to her face. "I do _not_ intend to share you with other men."

"Well, I am not an object to be shared. Or not shared, as it were." In an effort to hide how unnerved she was by his sudden change in demeanor, she tried to bat his hand away, but he caught her wrist and pinned it to her side.

"New condition of our agreement," he instructed. "You are not to have any physical contact with that oaf."

She scowled and yanked her arm from his grasp; this time, he let her go. "First of all, you have to stop manhandling me like this," she said, rubbing her chafed wrist. "This is not how civilized people interact. You see this?" She made a circular gesture through the empty space surrounding her person. "This is my personal space, and you need to stay out of it." He opened his mouth to reply, but she barreled through her words. "And second, that oaf, as you have so kindly referred to him, is merely a friend."

"He had his hands all over you."

"It isn't like that," she insisted. She brushed past him and headed for the utility closet by her work station. "In all honesty," she called back to him as she stepped inside and began rummaging, "I get the sense that he is not inclined to prefer the company of women, if you take my meaning."

He blinked in surprise. "Is that so?"

"It's just a suspicion. I have no proof. Aha!" She produced the suitcase bearing her worldly possessions, which she had snuck into the closet after her eviction. It would be going back with her to Erik's home tonight. "Regardless, you can rest assured that there are no men lining up to win my favor."

"Yes, I heard. Your set designer snuck off to Germany."

"He has not been mine for some time." She tucked the libretto into the suitcase and gathered up her shawl and satchel. "Now, what do you know of Gluck's _Orpheus and Eurydice_?"

"Everything."

"I was afraid of that."


	6. Orpheus with His Lute

Erik was stunned by Josephine's transformation in the wake of her new assignment. Granted, he had known her for only a few days and thus had little basis for comparison, but he struggled to reconcile the discipline and productivity of Josephine the professional with the reckless promiscuity of Josephine the harlot. It felt as though there must be a link between the two that he had not yet unearthed.

It was unfair of him to call her a harlot, he conceded. He found her choices distasteful, but he could hardly say so without acknowledging his own hypocrisy, and therefore he had resolved to hold his tongue in the wake of her confessions. Plus, if he were to be truly honest with himself, his aversion likely stemmed from the fact that he could not stop comparing her with Christine, whose wide-eyed innocence and virtue had arrested him from the start. It was ridiculous to compare them, really, because the two women were not at all alike.

Except.

Josephine, like Christine had been, was a breath of fresh air in an otherwise suffocating blackness, and he liked the way it felt to breathe again.

He also saw in both women an unspoken—perhaps even unrecognized—ambition, first evidenced in Josephine during her attempt to read the _Orpheus and Eurydice_ libretto by the faint light of the boat lantern as he rowed them back home for the night. She had read it twice before he had their supper ready.

After they ate, she helped him clear the table with a willingness and speed that put him immediately on the defensive. It was when she began to wash the dishes in his small kitchen that he could no longer lie in wait. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Cleaning up," she said. "You prepared the meal, so it's only fair." She averted his gaze to focus on her scrubbing, and as he turned to leave, she added, "Perhaps you would be willing to play some excerpts from _Orpheus_ this evening? I am afraid I have no musical inclination, and it would be helpful for me to hear the score."

Aha. There it was. "I do not play anymore," he said, hoping his tone indicated that the topic was not up for further discussion.

Her face fell. "The libretto is not enough," she complained. "I need more context."

"Well, the Opera Populaire has an excellent library." He had intended for the suggestion to be a flippant response to her whining, but her eyes lit up, and she spent the next several minutes interrogating him about the collection. Though he answered her queries with mild annoyance, somewhere deep down inside of his hollow-shelled self, a small seed of warmth had planted itself and was taking root.

* * *

As it turned out, Josephine's new credentials permitted her to access the opera library, but not to borrow anything. This posed a problem, given that she was still in wardrobe during normal work hours and therefore had no time for research. So, she improvised. When she and Erik retired to the sitting room after supper the following day, she sat on the sofa and dropped her satchel to her side with a heavy _thud_.

"I, ah, _appropriated_ a few items from the library," she said, extracting at least half a dozen books from her bag and stacking them on the floor. "Mostly mythology, but a few other things. I thought that you might want to read something, too."

He watched her rifle through the volumes but said nothing. Unruffled, she kicked off her boots before swinging her legs up onto the sofa and letting them sprawl carelessly to her side. She then brought her selection up to her face, licked the tip of her forefinger, and began flipping through the pages.

"I find your lack of decorum offensive," he said, but he left his chair to cross over and review the stack of books and eventually extracted a tome about architecture. He returned to his seat, and the two of them read their separate titles, together, in a cocoon of candlelit silence.

It was not long before Josephine retrieved her sketchbook and pencil to take notes as she read. The tales of Orpheus were detailed, and those details varied from one account to another.

The story she pieced together was that, in Greek mythology, Orpheus was the son of a king and of Calliope, the muse of epic poetry. At some point in Orpheus' life, Apollo, the god of light and music, bestowed upon him a golden lyre and taught him how to play it. Calliope taught her son how to set verses to the music.

Orpheus was heralded as the greatest musician of all time. It was said that he could charm all of nature with his song—beast and fowl, tree and rock—even changing the course of the rivers. On the famed nautical voyage of the ship Argo, he played music to free his companions from the clutches of the beautiful Sirens who, with their song, lured sailors to shipwreck on their rocky island.

After the expedition, Orpheus fell in love with a shy, beautiful wood nymph named Eurydice. They were married, but their happiness was brief; soon after the wedding, the bride succumbed to the bite of a deadly viper. Orpheus, in his overwhelming grief, journeyed to the underworld to bring his wife back from death. With his golden lyre and his arresting, mournful song, he moved to tears those presiding over the land, including its ruler, Hades.

Hades was so affected by Orpheus' lament that he promised the musician his wife's release and their safe passage to the land of the living, under one condition: Orpheus must not, under any circumstances, look back at Eurydice until they both reached the upper world and stepped into the light.

And so Orpheus led his beloved, by the hand, back across the underworld and to the land of the living, never once turning to look at her. As he finally stepped into daylight, the overjoyed musician turned back to embrace his love. But she had not yet stepped into the light, and upon his gaze, she was pulled back into the underworld. The gates closed behind her, and the despairing Orpheus was denied readmission. His love was lost to him forever. He went mad and was eventually torn to pieces by a cultish group of women known as the maenads.

This was a stark contrast to Gluck's opera, wherein Eurydice—unaware of the conditions of her release—pleaded with her husband to look at her and was so heartbroken when he did not that he gave in and turned to face her, prompting her death. But Amor, the goddess of love, took pity on Orpheus and returned Eurydice to life as a reward for his undying affection.

"Why would Gluck change the ending so dramatically?" Josephine blurted out amidst her studies.

"To pander to audiences," Erik replied, not looking up from his book. "Conventions of the time."

"Shame," she said. "Who doesn't love a good tragedy?"

* * *

The following day, Josephine raided the library for more volumes to add to her existing collection, and they spent the evening hours reading again. By the time Erik set down his book for a reprieve, she had migrated to the floor. Fanning out from her at all sides were hastily scribbled notes, rough sketches, and open books littered with scraps of paper to denote pages of interest. He noted with amusement that she had a pencil behind her ear even as she held another one between her teeth, both implements apparently forgotten among whatever she was absorbing from the volume in her lap.

At ease in her research and sketching, she gave off an almost contented sweetness. It reminded him of Christine when she had first started singing for him—before he had turned it into a matter of life and death.

A blue-and-gold coffee cup rested on a book at Josephine's side. She remained oblivious when he picked it up to inspect its contents—half full and ice cold—and also when he returned with the cup full of fresh, steaming coffee and cream, placing it exactly where he'd found it, with added saucer. He took the opportunity to glance at the labeled drawings she'd produced in the course of her research: a crude map of the underworld. Hades. Cerberus, the three-headed dog that guarded the gates of the underworld. Charon, the ferryman who carried the newly dead across the River Styx. Orpheus and his lyre. The Furies.

The sight threatened to send him into an envy-induced agitation. Once upon a time, he had been a master of creative diligence; what was he doing with himself now? He cast a furtive glance at the organ across the room.

There was no harm in just sitting at it, was there?

He procured a soft cloth from the kitchen and sat himself at the instrument under the guise of dusting it. When his hand rested briefly on the console, he imagined that he could feel it thrumming under his touch.

"It's about the music, isn't it?" came Josephine's voice behind him.

He turned his head to regard her. "Pardon?"

She had abandoned her work and was approaching him at the organ. "The opera. I had thought it was about love conquering all, but it's not just that. It's about _music_ conquering all—being so powerful that it can overcome death and hell. Right?"

"I suppose one could make that argument." He looked back down at the keys but could see her in his peripheral vision, standing next to the instrument and absently running a finger over the lacquered wood. He stifled the urge to swat at her hand.

"Do you not agree?" she asked.

"Perhaps that would suffice in the context of the opera, but the original Orpheus lost his love forever, went mad, and was ultimately ripped to pieces. So, no."

"That does not negate the fact that his music had the power to change nature and bring his love back from death."

He glanced at her again. She had a smudge of charcoal on her chin, which only served to emphasize how pale and dry her lips were at present, and tendrils of dark hair had escaped her bun and were plastered to her neck. Her brown eyes, though, were bright and focused.

"Fair enough," he said, "but it's a useless power if he ruins everything with his own human frailty. Ask me how I know."

She frowned. "You're comparing yourself to Orpheus?"

"At this point, I am merely waiting to be torn apart by frenzied women." He cast her a pointed stare. "Though feel I've made some progress on that front."

She rolled her eyes. "I think that for the metaphor to work, Erik, the object of your affection has to love you back." He looked up at her, stunned, and she clapped a hand to her mouth. "I'm so sorry; I didn't mean—it's not my place to speculate. I don't know what exactly happened with...with all of that." She looked legitimately remorseful, or perhaps just frightened; he was not sure which. "I'm sorry," she repeated.

He looked down at the keys again. His brain was short-circuiting and presenting him with far too many appealing responses: laugh, sob, yell, break something, curl up into a fetal position on the floor. Rarely had he been so indecisive or slow to react. He supposed that was progress, since the Erik of a year ago likely would have opted, without hesitation, for the classic combination of yelling and breaking something.

"Erik?" Her voice was so soft that the word practically dissolved like spun sugar as it left her mouth.

He hesitated. She did not have the right to know; no one did.

On the other hand, the same unspeakable events had taught him that there was power in making oneself vulnerable.

He stood, uncomfortable with the disadvantage that his sitting height gave him, and crossed the room to fidget with a small, bronze-cased clock on the tea table so that he could avoid eye contact. "I identify with Orpheus," he finally spoke, "because his legacy is one of human weakness, of a lack of trust and patience.

"But more on point, I have come to believe that if I had behaved differently, there was indeed potential for her to love me, as laughable as that may seem."

But Josephine did not laugh. When he looked up, she was sporting a frown again, the kind of frown that he had quickly learned to interpret as a signal of her gathering her thoughts to challenge him.

"What if," she said slowly, "it's more of a cautionary tale about trying to revisit or change the past? And Orpheus' ultimate fate is the result of his refusal to move forward?"

"Then I have failed to heed that lesson."

She nodded. "As have I."

Their eyes met briefly, intensely, and he was quick to look away and start tidying the sitting room, careful to step around her nest of books and drawings. "On that note," he said, "my reaction in the atelier to your...friend…was, ah..." He cleared his throat. He did not generally make apologies, and so far his drivel was proving no exception. "Let's just say I have a history of losing things to foppish blond men." That was as good as she was going to get, he decided; he could not bear to dwell on the past anymore tonight.

"Excuse me," he said, and he headed for the door without even bothering to gauge her reaction.

"Erik!" she called out. "I have only one question about...that night, if I may."

He turned wearily. "Yes?"

"Why is it that you have chosen to remain here all this time, taking no action in response to their escape?"

"Because their departure was _not_ an escape." He saw only a glimpse of her change in expression as the realization hit her, and then he was out of the room and barreling toward his own quarters.

Once inside, Erik lay on his four-poster bed—tailcoat and shoes and all—to stare at the canopy above him as he clenched and unclenched his fists for some kind of physical relief from anxiety. He stayed this way for what felt like a good half hour before he heard a rustling sound, and a piece of paper slid under his door.

He was on his feet in seconds. A ragged edge identified the paper's source as Josephine's sketchbook; it was folded into thirds, and written on the outer fold in narrow, modest handwriting was _For Erik: The true legacy of Orpheus_. He opened it to read its contents:

 _Orpheus with his lute made trees  
_ _And the mountain tops that freeze  
_ _Bow themselves when he did sing:  
_ _To his music plants and flowers  
_ _Ever sprung; as sun and showers  
_ _There had made a lasting spring._

 _Every thing that heard him play,  
_ _Even the billows of the sea,  
_ _Hung their heads and then lay by.  
_ _In sweet music is such art,  
_ _Killing care and grief of heart  
_ _Fall asleep, or hearing, die._

 _-Shakespeare_ , Henry VIII

He did not bother to stop the salt-stained tear that fell from his cheek onto the page, and the water spot blossomed like a sunburst next to Shakespeare's words. He read the note two more times and then tucked the paper into the corner of his mirror frame.

He proceeded to pace the length of the bedroom, his fingers again flexing with nervous energy. Three times he strode to the door and put his hand on the knob, only to retract it and return to his walking circuit. Finally, he flung the door open and stepped out into the hall. He could hear Josephine running the bath, and relief washed over him; he wanted to be alone when he was first reunited with his instrument.

In the sitting room, he lowered himself onto the organ bench and reached out with trembling fingers and a feather-light touch to stroke the keys. "Hello, old friend," he whispered. "What shall we play this evening?"

He briefly closed his eyes to let muscle memory dictate where his hands and feet settled on the keys and pedals, respectively. And then, like a flock of birds taking flight, the first chordal phrase of Bach's second _Fantasia and Fugue in A Minor_ rose from the instrument and cut through the silence of the room. The vibrations coursed through his body, urging him on. The more he worked out the stiffness in his joints, the more his body and the organ melded seamlessly into one entity, a frenzy of deft movement and transcendental sound. Something stirred deep in the pit of his stomach and rose to expand warmly across his chest: was this...happiness? No, not quite. But close.

He plied the keys and pedals for the entirety of the eight-minute composition, which culminated in a final chord that brought tears to his eyes once again. In its wake, he sat simply feeling the solidity of the instrument under his hands.

Something moved in his peripheral vision, and he hastily wiped his eyes as he turned to look. Josephine was leaning against the door frame in her nightgown, her arms and shawl hugging her torso and her mouth slightly agape.

"I thought you were bathing," he said quietly, and his words seemed to break her from a trance.

"I—I was about to," she replied. "Then I heard the music. I'm sorry if I intruded."

He studied her curiously; she seemed unsettled somehow, and though it may have been a trick of the candlelight, there was a slight flush to her skin. Oh, this most certainly warranted further investigation. He slid off the bench to approach her.

"The music made you feel something," he said probingly.

Her eyes widened. "I—what? No." He closed the gap between them, and she added breathlessly, "Personal space, please!"

Erik backed up a few paces but did not relent otherwise. "It's important to recognize and voice the emotions invoked by music, Josephine," he urged. "It's part of our humanity."

"I liked the piece very much," she said, her words spilling out in a rush, "but I'm afraid I cannot be more specific than that. Now if you'll excuse me, I should return to my bath. Goodnight." She made a hasty retreat, leaving him to stare at an empty doorway.

 _Oh, Josephine_ , he thought with a small smile. Surely she could not extract such intimate information from his lips and expect not to reciprocate? They would be circling back to this—of that he was certain.

* * *

Josephine sunk into the bath, exhaling deeply as the water swallowed her up to her chin. She willed her muscles to relax, but they remained in a permanent state of agitation. She could not unsee Erik at the organ: the mastery of his fingers on the keys, his intense focus and his almost sensual physicality.

She had been drawn to his skill, initially, but that had paved the way for further examination. Both his dress and posture had been impeccable, as always, and with the way he sat, she could only see the unmasked half of his face. There, with his gleaming hairpiece and trim figure, he had looked lithe and almost youthful. It had occurred to her with a furious blush that though his face might be deformed, the rest of him gave the appearance of being very much intact.

She tried very hard not to think about that now, or about the intensity of his gaze when he had locked eyes with her after playing. He was a man, yes—but a morally bankrupt one, she reminded herself.

Though she was not certain she believed that anymore.

* * *

 _Next chapter: A trip to the catacombs! Skeletons! Combat! Puns! Not unwelcome physical contact!_

 _Secret: Feedback helps me write faster and better!_


	7. Empire of the Dead

_This is the longest chapter yet! And it's action-packed! I hope this makes up for the fact that there will now be longer delays between updates, as I've now posted all the chapters that were at least partially written when I first published this story. Sorry! I'm aiming for once a week now. Following might be a good idea if you'd like to be notified._

* * *

The _Orpheus and Eurydice_ set that most excited Josephine with its possibilities was the entrance to the underworld, where Furies and demons denied Orpheus admittance until he won them over with his beautiful song.

Erik did not share her enthusiasm. "Why not the Elysian Fields?" he suggested one night over tea in the sitting room. "It is easily the most beautiful segment of the opera, in terms of both setting and music."

"And where is the challenge in that?" she countered. "Is it not the responsibility of a true artist to call attention to beauty where it might otherwise be overlooked?"

"Come now, Josephine, you have spent enough time in the underworld to know that there is very little beauty to behold." He gestured to their surroundings, and she was immediately struck with an idea so thrilling that she gasped and ran off to find her sketchbook.

She spent the next hour or so sitting cross-legged on the floor to draw the most captivating parts of Erik's home: the portcullis, the candelabras, and—under his watchful eye—even the underground canals and moored boat. A lavishly hellish landscape crystalized in her mind, and after much effort she determined that there was one last source of inspiration necessary.

"I need to visit the catacombs," she reported to Erik at the dining table later that week. She had the following day off of work and knew she would spend its entirety working on her set designs, but for now she was relishing the conclusion of a grueling work week, her belly pleasantly full of bread and beef consommé and wine.

"Absolutely not," he said. He stood and collected their tableware. She followed him into the kitchen, watching as he began to rinse and scrub the dishes.

"Erik, how am I supposed to find inspiration when I can never _go_ anywhere? Besides, I shall go mad if I remain confined indoors much longer." He handed her a freshly cleaned plate, and she wiped it dry with a dishcloth before placing it in the china cabinet, as had become their nightly routine. "I am not asking to go unaccompanied, you know. And we can take the sewers to stay out of sight."

"Not across the Seine, we can't. And besides, it would be almost an hour's walk each way. Can you not just rely on your memory for this, Josephine?"

"I have never been there," she admitted. "In all honesty, I have a slight fear of...bones. And also small, enclosed spaces."

He blinked at her. "And yet you still want to go."

"Very much."

He sighed, and she smiled, recognizing the sound as the quiet but exasperated one that he emitted when he was about to make a concession. "Fine," he said. "We go tonight."

She almost dropped the fork she'd been drying. "Tonight? So soon?"

"Why not? You do not have to work in the morning, and we must go when we are least likely to be spotted." He stopped what he was doing to peer down at her. "Do not be frightened, Josephine; the skeletons only reanimate during the full moon."

It took her a second to realize that he was teasing, and when she did, she huffed and swatted at him with the dishcloth. He dodged it easily, his eyes twinkling.

They set out a few hours later, Josephine with her trusty satchel and Erik with a lantern. They were able to keep to the sewers for the first fifteen minutes of the trip, and the conversation flowed easily. Josephine finally opted to explain her boarding house eviction: Her father had been forced into retirement by poor health, so she and her older brother, Alain, had worked to earn their family's income until an expensive surgery depleted everything they had. Her parents relocated to the country, where Madame Arnaud could keep chickens and goats and a vegetable garden while looking after her husband. Josephine and Alain continued to send as much money as possible: Josephine from Paris, her brother from the ports of Marseille.

"I sent extra this month," she explained. "One of the goats died. My monthly payment for room and board came up short. First time in almost eighteen months, but apparently there's no room for error." At that, the topic of discussion switched to the quality and cost of housing in the city, and she was relieved to divert attention from her personal life.

Erik had them surface in an alley behind an inn, near the Pont Royal. "Stay close to me," he instructed as they neared the bridge. "There can be unsavory characters about at this time of night."

"Such as yourself?"

"Funny."

It was unusually frigid for February, and fat snowflakes drifted from the sky to blanket the city in soft white powder. Josephine was glad to have donned her gloves and hat for the journey. Erik, ever prepared, had also presented her with a lovely green velvet cape from the wardrobe. She had protested at first, but the second she tried it on—at his urging—its rich, soothing warmth eclipsed any misgivings that she had.

There was an even longer walk over the bridge and down the south bank, making her all the more grateful for the cape. By the time they neared the catacombs, she found herself wishing she had worn another pair of stockings. Or five.

"The main entrance is just up that way," Erik said, pointing. "This is one place where I do not advocate secret entrances. Passages beyond the main ossuary are more susceptible to floods and cave-ins."

They were fortunate in that the entrance, though off-limits to the public outside of operating hours, had little to offer in the way of security. A heavy chain was draped in front of the stone steps that led underground, and they easily ducked under it. Erik led the way down the spiral staircase, lacing his fingers through Josephine's with one hand and holding out the lantern with the other.

The walls of the dark and narrow stairwell felt as though they were closing in on her. Despite the cold temperatures, she could feel her palms sweating, and she clutched Erik's hand even tighter. He stopped and turned to face her, the lantern between them. "We do not have to continue," he said. "Say the word, and I will take you back."

She shook her head. "We've come too far to turn around now. I shall manage."

The deep staircase led them to a long, twisting hallway of mortared stone that they traversed in silence. Just when Josephine thought that she might go mad from anticipation, Erik stopped in front of a doorway and announced, "The ossuary entrance." He held up the lantern to illuminate the inscription above the portal: _Stop! This is the empire of the dead_.

Her heart thudded against her ribcage, but she nodded and followed him in.

The catacombs were just as terrifying and awe-inspiring as she had expected: rows upon rows of neatly stacked bones—mostly femurs—that were studded with skulls forming artful shapes and patterns, the arrangements creating a seemingly endless series of low walls and caverns and alcoves, all periodically adorned with cemetery decorations.

"Does it meet with your approval?" Erik asked as they toured the remains.

"They are perfect," she said, "as long as I do not touch them."

He chuckled as she repressed a shudder. "I ought not to laugh, but this is not what I expected to frighten you. I would have thought you too stubborn to let anything scare you, to be honest."

She knew that he was being flippant, but she was still unnerved by their surroundings and found herself snapping, "I'm sorry; I forgot that you would rather have your company be docile and subservient."

A muscle in his neck twitched. "And remind me," he countered, "of how the opposite temperament has benefitted you."

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are here," he echoed, his voice softening. "Truth be told, I am no longer certain what type of company I prefer to keep; I have little experience on that front."

She was silent for a moment, already feeling the familiar sting of remorse that often followed her quick tongue. "Well," she began, "I am no expert, but I have enough experience to offer you some pointers."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed. For starters, I always maintain that it is best to form social relationships with the living. This fellow here?" She gestured to a skull leering out at them from the wall. " _Right_ out. Don't give him another second's consideration."

"Oh, I wouldn't. His type are much too cryptic for their own good."

She snorted. "Indeed. The next thing you know, he will have buried your reputation. And what a grave offense that would be!" Despite the fact that she'd managed to draw a small smile from him, she found herself groaning. "I'm sorry; I do not usually make such terrible puns," she said. She cast him an apologetic glance and added, "I am prone to saying regretful things when I am anxious. You know...skeletons and all."

"I understand," he said, and he reached out to make a bony foot kick in her direction. "They give you cold feet."

She flinched but recovered quickly enough to roll her eyes. "Oh, _honestly_."

"In fact, one might say you are scared _stiff_."

"I regret ever starting this conversation!" she said, faking exasperation, but she felt as though a candle had been lit inside of her, warmth and light spreading as the flame overtook the wick. It came almost too easily, this banter with him. She had to be careful.

She found an advantageous spot for sketching and settled in with the lantern, peeling off her gloves and trying not to cringe as Erik ran his fingers along a row of skulls in her peripheral vision. He wandered around as she drew, seemingly unable to stand still but always remaining within her sight, for which she was grateful.

Josephine had been sketching for half an hour when she heard a sound coming from farther down the passageway, in the direction of the entrance. She looked up at Erik, startled; he had frozen in place to listen. The sounds continued, and as they grew louder they were identifiable as male voices. She hastily packed up her things and got to her feet just as Erik came striding over. He grabbed her upper arm, maneuvering her into a small, shallow recess between two curved walls of skeletal remains as he simultaneously blew out the lantern, which he placed by her feet. He then positioned himself flush against her, enclosing both of them in his warm cloak.

Erik's arms encircled her lightly, but she could tell that he was straining not to touch her. Perhaps she ought to reconsider her "personal space" mandate to accommodate times of crisis, she thought. To help him out, she leaned against the wall behind her for support. It was uneven and knobby, the protrusions digging into her back and shoulder blades, and a quick brush of her hand confirmed her awful suspicion: bones. She gasped and jerked forward, and Erik gripped her shoulders to steady her. "I'm alright," she whispered, forcing herself to take measured breaths.

He released his grasp but stretched one arm protectively across her back. She had a sense then that, despite the overarching threats that defined their relationship, he would not let any outside harm come to her. That, for the time being, gave her a sense of security that she had not felt since before her father fell ill.

She allowed herself to lean forward against Erik's torso, resting the side of her head on his shoulder to hide her pale face. She felt him tense for a brief second, and then his other arm encircled her as well, fingers splaying gently across her shoulder blades. Her cheek settled onto the lapel of his black overcoat, which smelled of wet wool, and she closed her eyes in wait.

She identified the voices, when they drew near, as belonging to two bantering men who were clearly in an advanced state of inebriation, as evidenced by their slurred, dim-witted speech and the occasional clinking of glass bottles. Josephine had been thinking it odd that they had chosen to walk all the way into the ossuary when she recalled hearing that vagrants often holed up in the catacombs—a reasonable choice given the weather tonight, she conceded. She could feel the tension leaving her body as they passed by uneventfully.

"We ought to go," Erik said a minute later, and she agreed. Only then had it occurred to her how much he had put his security on the line to stray so far from the underworld. They separated, and she immediately missed the warmth and weight of his upper body.

Buoyed by the new sketches and therefore near-completion of her set designs, Josephine found the trek back to the entrance to be much less terrifying. She even remained unfazed when she stepped out into a gust of wind and snow, laughing and holding her hat down as they headed north to cross the Seine once more.

In the quiet shadow of a row of rickety shops, she asked Erik to wait so that she could put her gloves back on. Her frozen fingers made it all the more difficult to rummage through the contents of her satchel. As she fished for the garments she could not help but notice that Erik was inching toward her, his head down so that his fedora blocked a portion of his face. She stepped back, confused and somehow anxious. "Erik, what—"

And then she saw them: three men ambling in their direction, exchanging drunken insults and throwing playful punches at each other. Erik had been trying to remain unobtrusive, she realized now, but her understanding came too late; her withdrawal from him had caught their attention, and they were closing in.

"You alright, miss?" called out the brawniest of the three. "Is this gentleman bothering you?"

She shook her head. "No, we were just talking. Please, carry on."

But the concerned fellow had circled them far enough to note that something was different about Erik, and he motioned for his friends to come nearer. "Look at this chap's face," he leered. "What's with the mask, monsieur? Are you some kind of criminal? A monster, perhaps?"

"Yes, take it off and let us see your face," demanded a second rambler. By now, three of them had Josephine and Erik surrounded like a wolfpack.

"Gentlemen, I assure you that I want no trouble," Erik addressed them, hands raised in a placating gesture. "If you would be so kind as to let my companion and I be on our way, then there will be no need for an altercation."

"Not going to explain the mask, then, eh?" the first man asked. "Guess we'll just have to see for ourselves." He had barely extended his arm before Erik grabbed it and twisted it behind his back, making the man yelp in pain. And just like that, they were on him.

In the seconds that the three men converged on Erik, leaving Josephine to stand alone in the falling snow, her brain pursued her possible next steps. She could hardly see Erik's face amid the chaos, but she saw him fall to the ground as someone tossed his mask aside, where it landed in the freshly fallen snow, and her stomach flipped. She should run, she thought as the brawny man kicked Erik in the ribs. That made the most sense.

And so, keeping with her recent line of foolishly impulsive decisions, she instead ran up to the large man and kicked the backs of his knees as hard as she could, sending him sprawling to the ground. The remaining two, hunched over Erik's prone form, barely had time to react before she kicked one of them in the face; blood spurted from his nose as he fell. In the split second that the third assailant ceased his attack to take stock of what was happening, Erik had pulled him into a chokehold as he staggered to his feet.

Josephine's two victims regained their footing, the smaller of the two holding his nose to staunch the bleeding. The larger man was focused only on her now. "The minx is mine," he growled to his comrades, and he lunged at her. She ran.

She was surprised by how far she got, but then, her adrenaline level was sky high. She heard nothing, felt nothing, saw nothing but the snow-covered street, devoid of anyone who could help. Her lungs burned, and she could not find the voice or breath to scream.

Her pursuer slammed into her back with such force that she briefly entertained the possibility that she'd been hit by a train. She writhed beneath him, trying to buck him off, reaching behind her head to claw at any part of his body that might be there. She felt her nails rake through skin and heard him roar. He snatched up her arms, pulling them behind her back so roughly that she felt a pop in her shoulder joint, followed by a jolt of pain across the shoulder and down her arm. Her anguished cry was stifled by the snow and wet pavement now grinding sharply into her face.

It was when the man shifted, taking the brunt of his weight off of her torso, that she realized she had hardly been breathing. Welcome air rushed back into her lungs, but the relief was fleeting; he shifted her arms to grip both wrists with one hand, which sent another shock of pain through her upper body. She was sobbing now.

She felt pressure and movement along her thigh, and her legs were exposed to the cold night air, and then she suddenly knew why he had freed his other hand.

"Please, no," she cried, or tried to, but it came out as a whisper, swept away by an unsympathetic breeze. She felt her skirts being pushed even higher, and then there were brutish fingers playing at her waist and her mind started to shut down.

And then the weight was lifted. The pawing hands vanished following a guttural cry of rage from someone who was not her attacker, and she could hear the grunts and scuffles indicative of hand-to-hand combat. Using her uninjured arm, she pulled down her skirts and, with some difficulty, pushed herself up off the ground to take in the scene.

Erik—disheveled, mask back on, blood trickling down his face and spotting his formerly pristine white shirt—had his punjab lasso wrapped tightly around the neck of her assailant. The whites of the man's wide eyes were a sickening contrast to his now purple face, and he was clawing at the rope with no success; Erik had a firm grip and a dispassionate expression.

"Erik, don't," she begged, her face wet and red from tears and snow, and it was only then that he seemed to notice her. He loosened the lasso and pulled it off, sending the man crumpling to the ground.

She stared at the unconscious figure, then at the surrounding blanket of snow that was kicked up into a slush and flecked with blood, and she had to look away quickly to stifle the bile that rose in her throat. "Is—is he—?"

"Dead? No, I should think not. Nor are the others." He reached for her, and she shrunk away from his touch. His face fell, but his following instructions were firm. "Josephine, we cannot stay here. Please believe me when I say that it was not my intention to kill any of these men, and as far as I know, I did not."

She studied his expression; it was open, earnest, almost desperate. Then she nodded slowly. "At the very least, your intentions were more noble than theirs," she rasped, still locating her voice. She inched over to him and lay her head on his shoulder for the second time that evening, wrapping her good arm around his waist as she choked out her last few remaining sobs. He began to stroke her hair reassuringly, and it was then that she realized her hat had vanished.

"I am so very sorry, Josephine," he whispered, "but we really must go." He curled an arm around her shoulders to lead her away, which made her yelp and jump back.

"My shoulder," she explained. "It was pulled out of joint. I am afraid I may need your assistance in pushing it back in." This was, in fact, the third time in her life that the same shoulder had been dislocated, though the other two were not nearly as painful or traumatic.

"Can you manage until we are safely home?" he asked, and she nodded. "Good. Give me your other arm, then." She let her palm settle into the familiar curve of his hand, and they began the long trek back to the opera house.

* * *

By the time they returned, Josephine had relaxed enough that the shoulder seemed to be falling back into place on its own. At her direction, Erik sat on the sofa next to her and gently guided it the remainder of the way while she bit her lip to keep from crying out. Afterward, he was intent on making a sling to help keep the area immobilized, but she raised a hand to stop him. "Later," she said. "Now _you_ are the one who requires medical attention." He looked at her in surprise, to which she responded, "Your face is covered in blood, Erik. Let me help." She went to fetch a washbasin and soft cloths, placing the objects on the sofa when she returned to his side.

Very slowly, she raised her hand until her palm hovered at the side of his mask, making her intentions known. His eyes widened, flitting from her hand to her face and back again, and then he wrapped his fingers around hers to maintain the separation between skin and porcelain.

"Please," she said. "After what I have been through tonight, you could hardly frighten me. And besides, I've already seen your face. _Don Juan Triumphant_."

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded and released her.

She carefully lifted the porcelain shell and hairpiece from his head and laid them on the sofa beside her, and then she turned to look at his face, up close, for the first time.

Her breath hitched at the sight of his features in such detail; she had never seen a living person malformed so cruelly. Though she suspected that her eyes betrayed her shock, she managed to keep her face controlled for his benefit.

A smooth ridge of pale skin over his right cheekbone rose up and flared out like the rippled sands she had once seen on the beaches of St-Malo as a child. Beneath it lay an oblong valley of puckered pink flesh that stretched the full width of his cheek.

She continued to inventory the right side of his face: One missing eyebrow. One iris of the palest ice blue, and one brown. One elongated nostril. Two wrinkled lips that swelled and pulled to the side. One large, asymmetrical crater of deformed and exposed skull—her gaze could not linger there. Numerous wisps of coarse salt-and-pepper hair sprouting from an otherwise bare scalp. Everything caked in flecks or rivulets of drying blood.

And beneath it all, she reminded herself, bone and muscle. An operative brain. Blood. Emotion. A beating heart. And those eyes again—anxious eyes that hoped but dared not ask for acceptance.

She pulled back her focus to take in his face as a whole once more, and her brain began to reconcile the distorted face with the sharp mind and seductive manner that she had come to know. It was still unsettling, for the time being...but it was Erik.

He watched her curiously. "How does it feel," he asked, "to look death in the face?"

She shook her head. "You, monsieur, are very much alive." She brought the wet cloth to his face and began her ministrations. "I gather that was not the first time this has happened to you."

"The first time, I was beaten within an inch of my life. At least now I can say that I am satisfied with the self-defense progress that I have made since." He cringed slightly as she dabbed at his eyebrow, calling attention to a deep cut.

"How many times?"

He shrugged. "A dozen, maybe more. They blur together."

Her spirits sank even further as she rinsed the cloth and watched the water turn a murky red. "They were so _cruel_ ," she said quietly. "How can you ever forget the hatred in their eyes?"

"Almost every attacker's face has that same look: the brutish, unshakeable fear of a small mind." He flinched again as she grazed another cut. "No, it's the rare ones who become ingrained in my memory—the ones who have the capacity to see past their fear but ultimately choose not to."

With Erik's face as clean as it was going to get at present, Josephine lowered her arm and set the bloodied cloth in the washbasin. She was unable to meet his gaze as she whispered, "I am so sorry."

"It is hardly your fault."

She shook her head. "I should not have asked to go out. I was thinking only of myself and not of the consequences."

He took her cold hand in both of his, letting their warmth transfer to her skin. "The night was not a complete loss," he assured her. "You got your sketches, and I…" He brought her hand up to his mouth and gently pressed his lips to her knuckles. "I had my faith in humanity challenged and then restored."

He squeezed her hand and then set it back in her lap. "Time to make a sling!" he announced, and in his pursuit of materials he left her alone in the sitting room. She noticed that her hands were shaking, and whether it was in residual fear or nervous anticipation, she could not say.

* * *

 _In my research, I learned that the (current) special police force in charge of patrolling the catacombs is called the E.R.I.C. True story!_


	8. Hope Springs Eternal

In theory, Erik had always considered himself to be a romantic, at least in the traditional sense of the word: roses, serenades, impractical gifts, lots of touching—really just an overall sensuousness.

It made sense, then, that his world was upended when he considered that Josephine kicking a man in the face was possibly the most romantic thing he had ever experienced.

He wrestled with his feelings at first. Her actions were unladylike, certainly. As a whole, she was indelicate and stubborn and self-assured. But, God help him, he did not _care_. Here was a woman who thought his life worth fighting for; who was he to take that for granted? And why, _why_ should he not embrace someone with such wit and spirit, regardless of her sex? What did it matter which conventions society deemed appropriate when that same society had cast him out based on his God-given face?

A face that _she had touched_. It was more than he had ever dared hope for, from anyone. It had felt like...freedom.

Now, at close to noon with no sight of her all morning, he worried that Josephine's admirable spirit had been broken. He had never seen her look so timid as she did when they had parted ways to go to bed—so small, as though she were collapsing in on herself. And why shouldn't she? She had been assaulted, and almost in more ways than one. Even now, anger burned in his chest at the thought, only to be cooled by the swells of guilt that rushed in behind it.

Finally, Erik cracked her door open to peer in. He saw with relief that she was still sound asleep, the bedcovers pulled tightly around her like a cocoon, with only her forehead and shuttered eyelids poking out. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to plant a chaste kiss on that forehead, to smooth back the tangled brown locks that framed it, but a slight shift on her part pulled him out of his reverie. Feeling invasive, he quickly closed the door.

When she appeared in the sitting room after—in her usual black dress, eyes still bleary with sleep, hair in a loose braid that trailed down her back—his stomach flipped and he knew that he was done for.

"Good afternoon," he said.

She groaned. "I cannot believe I've wasted half a day already."

"It is hardly a waste if you needed the rest. How are you feeling?"

"What is the word for 'run over by a locomotive while being gored by an angry bull'?"

"Dead."

"Then yes, that." She was clutching the towel that he had used as a sling the night before. "Would you be so kind as to help me with this?" she asked. She had an angry-looking scrape stretching the full width of her right cheek, and her voice was subdued, lacking its usual sharpness and vigor. He could understand why, but he did not like it.

He rose from his seat to take the cloth from her hands. He folded it diagonally into a triangle, wrapped it around the arm attached to the offending shoulder, and then looped the ends of the cloth around the back of her neck to tie them securely, leaving the arm cradled against her upper abdomen.

They did not speak further of the previous night's events. What would they have said? Words could not appropriately capture the trauma she must have experienced—nor could they convey his feelings, because he still did not know what those feelings were, and as far as he was concerned they should remain unspoken regardless. All he could do as he stood behind her was place his hands lightly, reassuringly, on her shoulders. He felt her muscles slacken, and she leaned into him for the briefest of moments before she was off like a shot, ready to work. Her designs were due the following day.

Erik brought over coffee and victuals once Josephine set up camp at the dining table, her sketches and watercolors framed by a glowing lamp on either side. She had also moved a candelabra as close to her station as possible. He knew that she hated the perpetual darkness, knew that she spent all of her breaks at the opera house sketching in front of windows—but she had not once complained since their exchange at the portcullis on her first night with him.

"We can go up into the opera house, if you would like," he said. "I can think of several windowed rooms where we would not be seen."

She glanced up and offered him a wan smile. "Thank you," she said, "but I would rather just stay in today." Her bottom lip started to quiver, and she quickly looked away, returning her attention to the drawings before her.

His heart sank. He had mastered countless intellectual pursuits over the years, and for what? He could not even comfort a person in need. "Would you like me to play while you work?" he asked as a last resort.

She looked up again, this time with a genuine smile despite the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. "Yes, that would be lovely." He wondered why he had ever stopped playing music when it had the power to light up a face like that.

* * *

Josephine was all nerves the next morning. She refused breakfast, inhaled coffee, and barely spoke a word. He took extra care escorting her to the upper levels, noting that her hair was impeccable and that she wore the ink blue dress that had caused her such grief the week before. The scrape on her cheek had miraculously faded overnight, and what little was left she had concealed with a cosmetic paste from her dressing table.

"Good luck," he said before they parted. "If your designs are representative of even a fraction of the work you have done, you ought to have nothing to worry about. I'm sure your dapper acquaintance will be impressed."

"Oh, I'm not worried about that," she replied, patting the leather portfolio that Erik had loaned her as a means to house her final pieces. "I think that Victor and I are on the same page based on our follow-up discussions. But I have decided that if all goes well when we present the designs to the director, then I will make a case for being permanently elevated from wardrobe to set design."

He was surprised, though he did not know why he should be. "Brava," he commended. "Your talents are far better suited to design than sewing anyway."

"To be honest, it is not so much the trade skill that matters," she said. "I want more. I have tasted artistic freedom, and I am loath to give it up."

Oh, he certainly understood that.

He wished her luck again, and when she made her way up through the building, he did not follow. It was an important day for her, and he felt that the least he could do was grant her privacy, even if he could not tell her he was doing so.

But on that point, he was no longer sure. Presented with a chance to flee or turn him in at the catacombs, she had helped him instead. What did that _mean_?

He had always assumed that either his love of beauty or his innate need for control would be his downfall, but he realized now that both were wrong. His downfall would be hope.

He could accept that.

* * *

Josephine's designs and sales pitch were so well received that the director requested she be taken off wardrobe on the spot, and she spent the remainder of the day working through revisions with Victor. Afterward, she greeted Erik with a grin and practically floated home.

"We ought to celebrate," he said later as they cleaned the last of the dishes from their supper. "Champagne?"

"I don't suppose you have anything stronger?"

"As it so happens, I do," he said. "Go to the sitting room, and I will join you momentarily." She raised an eyebrow but obeyed his instruction, and he stayed behind in the kitchen to stock his silver serving tray with a bottle of absinthe and accompaniments.

"Oh, yes, that will do quite nicely," she said reverently when he set the tray on the tea table.

He poured chaste amounts of the olive green liquor into two crystal glasses, setting a slotted spoon over each. He then drew from a small plate of sugar cubes, placing one cube atop each spoon, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her snatch another one from the plate and toss it into her mouth. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Oh, it's not as though you have a shortage," she said.

"Those are for sweetening beverages, not for inhaling whole like a bridled horse."

"Can you honestly say that you have _never_ eaten one?"

"Yes."

They stared at each other as if in challenge. Then Josephine, still holding his gaze, placed a second sugar cube onto her tongue and let it slide back to crunch loudly between her teeth. He shook his head, unable to stop the corner of his mouth from turning up. "Perhaps you would be more comfortable in the stables upstairs," he suggested.

"And perhaps you will change your tune after a few rounds of this fine absinthe. Mark my words, I will have you eating a sugar cube by the end of the night."

She watched him as he began to drip cold water onto the slotted spoons, ever so slowly, so that it trickled over the sugar cubes and into the drinks. Once the sugar dissolved and the green liquid progressed from translucent to cloudy, he removed the spoons and handed her a glass.

"Cheers," she said, holding it up.

He felt obligated to propose a toast, and bit his tongue just in time to keep from saying, "To freedom"—something, he realized, that neither of them had. It was a sobering reminder of their actual relationship and not the one that had started developing in his imagination.

"To your accomplishments," he replied instead. Their glasses clinked, and they sipped in silence.

* * *

The second glass went down almost as easily as the first one had.

"So, what is it that you _do_ all day?" Josephine wanted to know. "Or, at least, what did you do before I came along and inconvenienced you?"

"Various and sundry things," he replied too quickly, trying to recall the activities not involving a brothel that accounted for his time. "I prepare food and keep my home in order, of course. I indulge in scholarly pursuits. I am, at present, translating a fascinating Italian biography of composer Carlo Gesualdo into French."

"And you spy on people in the opera house," she added helpfully.

"And I _supervise_ the opera house," he corrected.

She waved his words away and then held up her empty glass. "Pour me another, please, garçon."

He glared daggers at her as he took the proffered glass, muttering, "Imperious wench."

She gave an exaggerated gasp and put a hand to her breast. "Do my ears deceive me, Erik, or have you conceded to lobbing insults like us common folk? Better pour yourself another, too. I have a sugar cube bet to win, after all."

* * *

"Please."

"No."

"Pretty please?"

"No."

"Pleeeeeease."

He drained his third glass of absinthe. "For the love of God, Josephine, I am not going to sing." At this point, the issue was not even that he no longer sang; it was that she wanted him to join her in a jaunty rendition of "Sur le Pont d'Avignon," and if he was going to make a significant—albeit slightly inebriated—return to vocals, then it certainly would not be with a saccharine children's song.

She eyed him suspiciously. "You seem entirely too normal. How many drinks have you had?"

"Same as you."

"You are the most sober drunk person I've ever met," she said.

"I am not sober," he assured her, "but you are too far past it to tell."

She shrugged and held out her glass. "Fair enough. One more, please."

* * *

After the fourth round, they retired to the sofa, having progressed from eager conversation to ridiculous banter and then on to pleasant drowsiness. Josephine leaned against him, blurting out random thoughts that seemed to slip out of her head unfiltered. If responding to her questions and observations guaranteed the continued presence of her body tucked against his, though, then he was more than happy to do so.

At one point there was a considerable silence, and then she asked, "Did you get my letter?"

"Letter?"

"The one with the Shakespeare verses. About Orpheus."

"I did, yes. Thank you."

"It was a reminder that Orpheus's legacy was his song and poetry."

"Yes, I know. I appreciate it."

"And _that_ gave way to worship of the gods and thereby social order," she continued. He was not sure that she was even addressing him at this point. "So arguably, he made one of the greatest contributions to civilization. But I think that, more importantly, he is a model of human nature. He demonstrated that even men who are as close to godlike status as possible are not without flaws." She looked up at him through dark eyelashes and with half-lidded eyes. "Don't you agree?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he had even decided what to say, she reached out and caught a lock of his brown hair. As she watched it curl around her finger, he wished desperately that the hair was actually attached to his head so that he could feel her ministrations. She emitted a small, contented sigh and murmured, "My fiancé had hair this color."

Stunned, he gripped her hand and pulled it away from his face. "What did you say?" he asked.

She gave no indication of having heard him, instead sitting up and studying their now clasped hands. She began to trail the index finger of her free hand back and forth over his clenched knuckles, which sent a shiver down his spine.

That one fingertip became two and then three, grazing the back of his hand and wrist before joining the rest of her hand to slide up his forearm. It wasn't until she reached his bicep that he realized the rest of her body had been falling forward in tandem with the upward movement of her arm, and he caught her by the shoulders just as she fell against him, her lips crashing onto his in a pleasant turn of events.

He let out some kind of strangled groan—the product of surprise and confusion and red-hot desire—as she drew long, urgent kisses from his lips. He found himself opening his mouth to hers, and he anchored his fingers deep in the roots of her hair so that he could pull her to him with even more force.

Kissing her in this moment was surely a terrible idea, his brain chastised as he plied her lips with his own, his tongue occasionally catching hers with soft, wayward strokes. His body protested: _No, no; this is a most excellent idea. Carry on, good sir._

He wrapped his arms around Josephine's torso and, not once breaking contact with her mouth, pulled her up so that she straddled his lap. Her chest settled easily against his, and her arms loosely circled his neck. She emitted a small moan against his lips, and he determined that he would happily sing children's songs for all of his days if it meant that he got to coax that sound from her once more.

While their lips collided, he was vaguely aware of her pulling his bowtie loose, and then he remembered that he had hands. He began running them over her back and hips, down her thighs, then back up again to cup her face as they continued to kiss. His mask kept colliding with her nose, creating what he imagined to be an unpleasant friction, and he started thinking about how much more enjoyable their exchange would be to have skin against skin.

"Josephine," he said, breaking off the kiss. She looked up at him, confused. "May I—do you mind if I take this off?" He gestured to the mask.

She furrowed her eyebrows as though processing his request, and then suddenly her eyes widened, becoming clearer than they had been since her first or second glass of absinthe. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, clambering off his lap and to her feet. "I was not thinking—I should not have—excuse me. Goodnight." She practically ran out of the room, leaving him to stew in disappointment and longing.

He stood and paced, at one point even emitting a frustrated growl. He wanted to burst into her room and demand that she explain herself, or perhaps throw himself into the canal to cool down. Maybe both.

The sugar cubes beckoned to him from their place on the tea table. "You win," he said, and he placed one between his teeth, the satisfying crunch helping his anger to dissolve along with the sugar. He started to refocus and consider the night's events. He had spent the past 24 hours nursing feelings and desires that he thought could not possibly be reciprocated...and then _she_ had kissed _him_.

And then, there it was again, that most persistent advocate of his: hope.


	9. Angel of Music

_So sorry for the delay! I had to do a brain dump of the oneshot that was swimming around in my head, and then I was busy, and then I got sick. All is well now._

* * *

It was getting tiresome, this waking up with a sense of regret and foreboding.

And with pain! Why did it hurt so much to live here? Today, it was a splitting headache and a malaise so miserable that Josephine briefly wished for death. She barely managed to get out of bed, let alone dressed; the only thing propelling her was the fact that she was to attend her first-ever technical staff meeting that day.

That, of course, hinged on her actually leaving the bedroom to face Erik.

One could argue that her actions the night before had been a mistake. She had been inebriated and thinking about her fiancé when she had first kissed Erik, after all. But one second of contact had been all it took to pull her back to reality, because his lips were...different. Malformed. In truth, the real shock was the fact that he knew how to _use_ them; her stomach fluttered just thinking about it.

This was the pattern, though. A few friendly conversations, a flirtatious touch or kiss, and then suddenly she was sabotaging an engagement or throwing herself at the mercy of an insufferable set designer. And for what? An hour's respite from the dull ache that plagued her day in and out? Though when she put it that way, the reckless trysts started to sound attractive all over again.

 _But not with_ Erik, she scolded herself. _Not with the man who has essentially held you captive these last three weeks_. Surely this was a new low for her.

She winced at that notion as soon as she thought it. He deserved more credit, at least for all that he had done in supporting her professional endeavors.

Also, she had really, _really_ liked kissing him.

And, if she were being honest, she respected his wit and his sharp decisiveness and the fact that he was adept at practically everything besides maybe acting like a normal human being sometimes. He seemed like a decent person, truth be told—except for the fact that, despite all of their progress, he had given no indication of releasing her from that particularly carnal condition of their agreement, which was both insulting and infuriating.

That was it, then. _You were drunk and lonely, Josephine. Tell him so._ She took a deep breath and flung the bedroom door open, emitting a surprised cry as she nearly collided with the very man she had been thinking of, his knuckles positioned to knock on her door.

"My apologies," he said, appearing equally startled. "I thought you might still be asleep." He squinted to examine her face as clinically as one might inspect silver for signs of tarnishing, taking into consideration—she assumed—her puffy lower eyelids, colorless lips, and tired scowl. "I suspected as much," he said with a frown. "Come with me." He pulled her by the hand to the dining room, where he insisted that she sit.

"Tea and toast," he said, setting the items in front of her. "You need the sustenance. You have a meeting today, after all."

"What are you, my mother?" she grumbled, but she bit into the toast. Erik had coated it with a fine patina of his homemade fig preserves (her favorite), just enough to make the dry bread palatable. She found some of her irritation melting away as the nourishment started to soothe her angry head and stomach.

He sipped his own tea while she breakfasted and cast furtive glances in his direction. He was acting as though nothing had happened. Had she dreamed it? No, she remembered all too well the exhilarating feel of him pulling her onto his lap; in fact, she hoped she was not blushing now. Regardless, if he was going to insult her by pretending that nothing of substance had happened, then perhaps she would do the same.

* * *

The meeting room was in a wing of the opera house that she had never dared enter before, used almost exclusively by managers, front of house, and some lead staff. She was relieved to find that she was neither the first nor the last to arrive, and Victor was already there to ease her in and start making introductions. It hardly escaped her notice that the only other woman present was Madame Giry of the corps de ballet.

She had almost convinced herself that she was not completely out of her element when a chorus of boisterous male voices overtook the murmured chatter of the room, and in walked managers Gilles Andre and Richard Firmin with none other than the Vicomte de Chagny. The latter seated himself right next to her, his face lighting up with recognition. "Mlle. Arnaud! You are quite far from the atelier. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"A change of station, monsieur le vicomte. I am now assisting with set design."

"Is that so? Well, brava! I only regret that I shall not be able to see more of your work when I leave town after this production."

Andre, standing at the head of the table, cleared his throat. "Monsieur le vicomte," he murmured, "we ought to begin, given the time constraints."

"Ah, yes." Raoul spun in his chair to face the manager. "Go ahead, Andre."

"Good morning, all." Andre addressed the room with a tight-lipped smile. "We are pleased to have begun the production of _Orpheus and Eurydice_ with the lot of you and have no doubts that this will prove to be our most successful season yet. Unfortunately, we must first address a matter of some importance that is only tangentially related: the possible return of the madman known as our Opera Ghost."

A shock wave rippled through the room. Josephine momentarily forgot to breathe, her heart pounding as she waited for further explanation.

Monsieur Firmin stood to raise his hands in placation. "Now, we hardly have the evidence to support it. The chief of police informed us of some witness accounts as a mere precaution so that we may proceed with heightened alertness, which is why we now pass the information on to you."

"And what are these witness accounts?" Madame Giry demanded, looking even stiffer than usual.

"One reported a suspicious-looking man wearing a white mask," said Andre, "just a few blocks from here, in broad daylight."

The ballet instructor shook her head. "That hardly sounds like our Phantom. A copycat, perhaps?"

"There was one other report," Firmin added. "Three men, attacked and left for dead the other night in the 14th arrondissement, though all survived. They identified their assailant as having a white half-shell mask." The room was quiet then, and he continued. "We—and the police—do not consider this a serious threat at present, but we tell you now so that you will keep your eyes and ears open in your capacity as lead staff here at the Opera Populaire. We will bolster our security measures, particularly for the performance of _Orpheus_ , and we ask that you not repeat this information to anyone outside of this room."

"That includes my wife," said Raoul, and the atmosphere grew heavier as all eyes shifted to him incredulously. "She has been through enough already," he explained, "and I want her to enjoy her last performance in this opera house. Please."

Andre nodded. "Yes, please report suspicious activity only to myself or to Monsieur Firmin, and we will rely on the police to handle the matter appropriately."

"Not if I get to the bastard first," Raoul muttered, so quietly that Josephine was certain no one but her had heard him.

"Ah, and here comes our Eurydice now!" Andre announced more loudly than was necessary. All eyes went to the doorway, where Christine had entered in a smart, fitted gown of navy and cream striped silk with gold trim and fastenings.

"Oh! My sincerest apologies, messieurs," she said, looking startled. "I did not mean to interrupt; I was looking for my husband, and the secretary sent me here. But what's this I hear about the police?"

"Oh, just taking precautions against thievery," said Andre quickly. "Can never be too careful with the box office, you know. But enough of that! Will you be joining us for a luncheon after the meeting, or must that husband of yours whisk you away too soon?"

Josephine could not help but stare as they chatted. She had seen Christine many times before, but this was the first chance she'd had to study the woman's features up close. Her eyes drifted over the rounded cupid's bow of Christine's lips, her dewy skin, the tiny crinkles on either side of her nose when she laughed merrily at one of Andre's jokes. The arrangement of the striped silk, pulled back and gathered over a bustle, served to emphasize her slightly rounded hips and delicate, poised frame. She could have fooled anyone into believing she'd been born into high society.

And yet...there was something earnest and unassuming about her, something that Josephine knew could only come from humble beginnings. She felt herself drawn in to the woman's loveliness, until she, like many others, began to grow dispirited at the thought of the soprano leaving the opera forever.

Raoul had risen to his feet and taken his wife's hands in his, giving her a peck on the cheek. "All done with your wardrobe engagement, my dear?"

"Yes, just a few measurements taken for my costume. Very quick."

"Then I am afraid we must take our leave," Raoul said to the managers. "Good luck, all. No doubt we will meet again soon."

Christine smiled, still clutching her husband's hand as she voiced and nodded her goodbyes. On her way to the door, her eyes swept across the room and seemed to linger on Josephine, her smile growing in width and warmth at the sight of another young woman. Josephine could not help but smile back.

Later that evening, on the short boat ride home, Josephine waited for Erik to discuss their own enhanced security measures in light of the rumors of his return. Instead, he maintained silence, his gaze focused only on the oar as it cut through the murky water. Surely he had heard said rumors? She had just resolved to speak up when he asked, "I trust you are feeling better?"

"Yes, I am."

"Good." He looked away again.

She exhaled through her nostrils. "Is that it, then? Are you going to keep carrying on like this, as though nothing happened last night?"

"I have done nothing that you were not already doing, Josephine," he said sternly. "I thought it most respectful to follow your lead, or at least wait so you would not be distracted at work."

"And since when did you become a paragon of empathy?" she snapped.

"Since Christine," he replied, "though I would hardly call myself a paragon." His candor both caught her off guard and stung her, though she could not articulate why. She stared at him, imagining the invisible string that would forever tie him to his love.

"Something is bothering you," he observed, "and I do not doubt that last night's events are related."

"Or some _one_ ," she grumbled, crossing her arms.

He watched her in silence for a few seconds, and then he said, "I would like to sing an excerpt of the opera for you. Tonight, after supper."

She was unable to hold back her surprise. "I was under the impression that you did not sing anymore."

"I do not," he conceded, "but perhaps it is time that I start again."

* * *

Josephine sat on the sofa to watch Erik perform, suddenly feeling nervous and invasive, as though she were intruding on something wholly private.

"Act three, scene one," he announced as he sat down at the organ. "Orpheus has just lost his wife a second time. Now his devastation is twofold, as he knows that _he_ is the one responsible for her death. He cannot carry on any longer."

His fingers flexed above the keys and launched into the introduction. The pipe organ leant a reverent, church-like quality to the piece, in contrast to the string-heavy instrumentation she was so used to hearing from the orchestra. For an aria driven by desolation, it was almost comforting.

And then the melody poured out of him. It swirled around the room, making her breath catch in her chest and permeating her very core: soft, thick, almost palpable grief.

 _I have lost my Eurydice,  
_ _Nothing can equal my sorrow;  
_ _Brutal fate! What cruelty!  
_ _Nothing can equal my sorrow!  
_ _I succumb to my pain!_

Without realizing it, she had drawn her knees up to her chest to hug them tightly. She was no musician, but she could feel in her _bones_ that his voice was perfect, both tender and commanding. She shut her eyes against his dark form, relinquishing any attempt to understand how such a historically abrasive person could produce a sound so devastatingly beautiful. Angel of music, indeed.

She kept her eyes closed even after the song finished, reluctant to give up the velvety embrace of his voice. Her face glistened with trails of hot tears that had spilled, unfettered, onto her cheeks. She was unaware of how much time passed as she concentrated on suppressing the lump in her throat.

"Josephine." The word floated on a warm breath into her ear. Erik's hand came to rest on her shoulder, waiting. She drew in one deep, quivering breath and parted her wet lashes to regard the angel of music. He was down on one knee at her side, staring at her with an expectant intensity that made her stomach flip. The deep, rich brown of his left iris gradually darkened from the outside in, creating the illusion of a bottomless cavern that she felt herself falling into.

"Tell me what you felt," he instructed. She tracked the movements of his mouth—dry, cracked lips that fought against the constant asymmetrical pull of a malformed face. Lips that had just uttered the most transcendental sounds she'd ever heard. Lips that had touched hers. She opened her mouth to speak but could not form words.

He pulled her up by her arms to stand with him, his face far too close to hers for comfort. "Tell me," he repeated, "how it made you _feel._ "

She shook her head and looked at her feet. "I cannot."

He cupped her chin with his long fingers and tilted her face back up to him. His eyes seared through her. "Do _not_ fight this," he ordered. "It's time to release whatever it is that has kept you so tightly wound for so long."

"Is _that_ why you sang for me?" she asked accusingly, and he nodded. She jerked her chin away from his grasp, but her bottom lip was trembling now. A few tears began to fall silently, freely, once again. "It made me feel so...so…" She let out the tiniest of whimpers, looking up to him beseechingly.

"It's alright, Josephine."

"So _lonely_ ," she whispered. She sank back onto the sofa, and Erik sat by her side, pressing a handkerchief into her hands.

"Would it help you to discuss it?" he asked.

For a brief moment, as she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, she considered telling him everything. She had known him less than a month, but he had an unsettling way of seeing straight through her as no one else had done, and she supposed that she would end up divulging her greatest secrets to him in time. She was still angry with how he had baited her, though, and it got the better of her. "No," she said flatly. She swallowed, now determined to wrap up the talk. "But now you have an explanation for last night. I kissed you because I was lonely, and I stopped because you are...not him."

"The fiancé you neglected to mention?"

"Former fiancé."

"You did not stop with the various other men who have tickled your fancy." His voice was now laced with irritation, perhaps even suspicion.

She did not voice her thoughts: _Because they were harmless, and in so many ways, you are not._ Instead, she replied, "I ought to have stopped. I know better now."

She stared down at her hands, which clasped the wet handkerchief, and noted that a single red rose was embroidered onto a corner of the linen. "What _is_ it with you and roses?" she asked. She had seen them adorning so many of the objects in his home: china, linens, woodwork. "I much prefer the lily of the valley. It's incredibly poisonous, you know." She could hardly keep from talking now, from shoving down the emotions that had risen so dangerously close to the surface. "I admire the fact that such a delicate-looking flower can defend itself so spectacularly."

The corner of Erik's mouth twisted into something like a sad smile, and she recognized the expression in his eyes as one she had seen before. "I admire that about you, too," he said, "but I wish that you did not feel the need to defend yourself so spectacularly."

She took a deep breath and pulled herself to her feet. "Thank you very much for the performance," she said stiffly. "It was a pleasure."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she waved him away and excused herself for the night, practically sprinting toward her room. She could not bear the look that he gave her any longer.

It was pity. Pity from a man met by disgust and hatred his whole life, prevented from sharing his genius with humanity, desperately having failed to win over the one person who could save him. Josephine could only imagine how much he clung to his memories as she subjected him to her own misanthropy. No man who had put everything on the line for the prima donna would ever settle for less.

She had never felt more alone than in that moment.

* * *

 _I used a translation of the opera lyrics here, but they sound much nicer in French._


	10. Bared Secrets

As another few weeks passed, Erik spent less and less time in the opera house during the day, opting instead to let Josephine believe that he was there while he engaged in more productive endeavors. His plan of departure was at the forefront, in theory...but he had essentially nothing accomplished. He had considered other equally cultured locales where one could easily lurk in the shadows—London, Rome, Berlin, even America—but it hardly made a difference. Regardless of geography, he would be alone again, and he had no sense of purpose.

He had even given up on cracking Josephine for the time being. If he tried hard enough, he could almost forget how she had nearly surrendered herself to him in both body and mind. And he needed to forget, because otherwise every day would have been agony in such close quarters, and it was best to just enjoy her company in what limited time they had together.

And then she fell ill. He had suspected that her body would succumb to the cold and damp eventually; he was, all things considered, impressed by how long it had taken. The worst of it, thankfully, struck on one of her days off. He brewed her hot tea with lemon and honey, supplied her with an ongoing stack of freshly laundered handkerchiefs, and ensured that she was warm at all times. Otherwise, he was—to her mild annoyance—keeping a safe distance. The Phantom of the Opera did _not_ get sick.

That evening, swaddled like a newborn in a thick blanket of brown wool, Josephine lay with a book on the sofa, which he had pulled closer to the fire. He suspected that she was fighting sleep more than she was reading, but he remained quiet as he perused his own book in one of the high-backed chairs.

"Are you ever going to compose again?" she asked suddenly.

His head snapped up. "Pardon?"

With some effort, she pulled herself to a sitting position, still clutching the blanket tightly around her torso. "I had heard that you are a genius composer, but I never see you writing music."

He returned his gaze to his book as he replied, "I think we can both agree that my last attempt was an unmitigated disaster."

"Obviously that was a product of the context, not the work itself." A pause. "Well, perhaps both."

At that, he could not help himself; he set his book on the table and turned to face her. Knowing that his stiff posture must have already given away his defensiveness, he clasped his hands expectantly and said, "Ah, the renowned music expert has a critique! I am all ears, mademoiselle."

"Do not patronize me," she said, glowering. "One does not need to master a skill in order to provide constructive criticism. At least, I imagine you gave credence to that theory last week when you informed me that my watercolor roses were 'joylessly pedestrian.'"

He nodded. "Still true. Touché, then. Please, tell me what you thought of my opera."

"Honestly? It felt like the operatic fantasy of an adolescent boy. It lacked something...poignant. I suspect that you are capable of more."

Erik stared at her, his mouth set in a firm line while he considered her statement, and as seconds elapsed, he watched anxiety and doubt begin to creep into her facial expression. He could not help but take some pleasure in her discomfort, relishing the rare opportunity to remind her that an unchecked tongue could bring about unwanted consequences.

In what came as a surprise to perhaps both of them, he found himself chuckling. "You are probably not wrong," he admitted. "I have become more acquainted with the ways of the world since."

Her eyebrows rose. "Is that so? And what, pray tell, did this education involve?"

"Certainly nothing befitting a lady's ears," he replied more throatily than intended.

Her cheeks flushed as her lips parted to form a small "O," and he could have sworn that he saw a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Well," she said, "we both know that I am hardly a model of propriety." Was that the faintest hint of flirtation that he detected? It was hard to tell how much of the huskiness of her voice was due to something other than illness, if any.

Still, in his mind's eye, he saw himself lunging across the room to claim her.

"Why not start a new opera?" she asked. "Or even a single piece?"

"Ah," he said, extending his long fingers to fidget with the brass clock on the tea table. "I am afraid that I have been separated from my muse rather permanently."

She let out what sounded like a small snort of derision, and something inside of him snapped. "And _what_ have I said or done now to earn your scorn, Josephine?"

She looked up, surprised, as though she had not been cognizant of emitting a reaction. "Nothing," she said, shaking her head. "I apologize. In fact, I really ought to get to bed." She stood and made for the door, draping the blanket over her arm, but as she skirted along the wall of the room, he strode over and slapped his palm against the stone in front of her.

"Tell me," he ordered. "That is not a request."

Her black-brown eyes darted from his face to the barricade formed by his arm. "Fine," she sighed. "I was thinking that a muse only inspires one to work, but it is in doing the work itself that the genius comes out. You cannot expect to create something if you do not even _try_."

He blew hot air through his nostrils. So often he had let her preach this way, let her provoke him unanswered, but there was fire in his veins now. "And what would _you_ know of genius?" he asked.

In her eyes he saw, with some remorse, that he had succeeded in wounding her. However, she rallied quickly to fire back. "I suppose I ought to ask the same question of you, for I have seen no proof of its existence."

"Tread lightly, Josephine," he warned quietly, "lest you forget that you are still indebted to me."

Those dark eyes blazed, and she crossed her arms, hugging the blanket in the process. "We both know that you do not intend to see that through anytime soon." Perhaps she did not intend it as such, but her reply had all the trappings of a challenge.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him, wrapping his other arm around her waist, and he was vaguely aware of the blanket hitting the floor as he swiftly backed her into the wall. She let out a slight gasp as his thigh separated her legs. He put his lips to her left ear, so close that their cheeks touched. "Do not," he murmured, "underestimate what I might do when provoked."

He pulled his face back just enough to let his forehead rest on hers, closing his eyes as his warm breath fell onto her face. He let his hands trail gently down her sides to rest on her hips, where his fingertips curved into her skin. He liked the way that she felt under his palms: warm and supple and feminine. He liked the way that she smelled of soap and woodsmoke, with no cloud of odorous perfume. And his lips were so very, very close to reminding him of how she tasted. He had never intended to see through this aspect of their agreement, but the urge was now so ineffably, _deliriously_ strong, and there was a flicker of something inside of him—suspicion? hope?—that suggested she might be amenable to it after all.

As he held her, grappling with whether to step off the precipice of chivalry and plummet into his lust, he became aware of her breathing: labored, shaky, with a slight rasp likely attributable to the illness in her lungs. Even more disconcerting, she was silent and still. Her discomfort grounded him, and he drew back, releasing her hips. "You are right," he said. "Not tonight." He looked down and ran his fingers through his hair, unable to meet her gaze. "Please, continue to your room. I will bring you something to help you sleep."

He exited ahead of her, slipping into the kitchen as quickly as possible. As he prepared another cup of tea, he replayed the previous scene in his mind. When had his emotions begun flowing so freely again? He could not allow it to happen. He must douse the flames of anger and passion that had once consumed him whole, lest he be devoured again and—worse—take her with him.

Unless. _Unless._

What if he could repurpose that passion? Channel it, so that the sparks left his body to ignite something else: creation instead of destruction. His fingers began to twitch and ache for the pipe organ, and he knew— _damn_ _it all_ —that she had been right. He still had untapped power within him, lack of muse notwithstanding.

He quickly added a spoonful of honey and a squeeze of lemon to the tea, and then he topped it off with a generous splash of whiskey before placing the cup on a saucer to deliver to Josephine in her room.

When he pushed her door open, she stood with her bare backside facing him and was pulling her chemise up over her head. The mirror across the room displayed her full, naked torso, all the way to just below her navel, where the bed cut off his view. He was stunned by the assault of pale breasts and buttocks and hip bones on his senses, and almost as much by the thin, silvery-purple scar stretching across the base of her lower abdomen. He had not seen any of these things when he had spied her with the set designer so many months ago; that had been merely a flash of movement, a glimpse of her face, her body mostly clothed with the young man occupying the space where her skirts had been pushed up.

He absorbed all of this new information in the span of one second before she spotted him in the mirror and jumped to cover herself with the newly shucked chemise.

"I—I apologize," he sputtered, and he ducked out of the room, pulling the door shut with him. His cheeks burned with mortification, both on his behalf and hers.

He strode down the hall and into the sitting room, where he set the teacup on the table and proceeded to stalk the perimeter, nervously flexing his fingers as he went. He felt as though he had caught her at her most vulnerable, and the guilt from that alone unseated him. When he also took into account his desire, now flaring up again at the fresh reminder of how long it had been since he'd last laid hands on bare skin, he wanted to get as far away from her as possible and plunge his body into ice water, and never have to face her again. With any luck, she would remain holed up in her room for the night and they would never speak of this again.

Her eventual appearance in a cream-colored nightgown indicated that he was fresh out of luck this evening.

Even with the low lighting and the distance between them, he could make out the hollows under her eyes and the tired slump of her shoulders. When she crossed the room to sit on the sofa, he saw that the corners of her eyes were red from weeping. He felt like a monster.

"Josephine, I am so terribly sorry."

"No, _I_ am sorry," she said. "I forgot that you would be coming."

"I should have knocked."

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance but only managing to exaggerate the misery etched into her face. "I suppose it is nothing that you will not see later."

He winced inwardly but, in a moment of selfishness, took advantage of the opening. "In that case," he said, "may I ask—the scar?"

She nodded with such easy acquiescence that it was plain why she had come back: to tell her story. The intimacy of the gesture robbed him of breath. In a rather uncharacteristic move, he sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire to listen.

She looked not at him but into the fire when she spoke. "An operation, two years ago. It was _my_ surgery that bankrupted my family." He did not respond, only waited, and gradually the words began to fall from her lips.

What he learned was that she had begun experiencing pain during her time of the month, pain so excruciating that it would radiate from her abdomen to her back and even her legs. When there came a month when she could not even walk, the doctors were consulted. They found a mass. It was recommended that she undergo immediate surgery to remove the entire womb, regardless of the fact that she could very well die under the knife. She agreed, and her parents drained their savings for it.

"Well, you did not die, so it must have been successful. Certainly your parents could not begrudge you that."

She nodded, still gazing into the fire. By now she was hugging the bony knees that she had pulled up to her chest, a posture that he was coming to recognize as a physical barrier against a nonphysical threat. "Everyone told me how incredibly fortunate I was," she said, "but they were not the ones who had to inform my fiancé that there would be no children in our future."

He inhaled sharply, overcome with understanding. The Josephine he knew now—with her casual disregard for virtue and fidelity, her avoidance of other women, her hard outer shell—was not the Josephine of two years ago. Circumstance had made her an outcast just as it had him.

Yet, he recalled the tenacity with which she had fought for her freedom in the beginning of their relationship. Suddenly, he very much wanted to grab her and pull her close—not out of sympathy, but out of need, a longing to know her more intimately and somehow absorb the qualities that made her...her.

"He left you," Erik breathed. "That coward."

She shook her head. "He expected a family when he decided to marry me. Why should he be forced to carry out an agreement when I could not meet one of the most important terms?"

"There are other means—adopting an orphan, perhaps. Would he not even consider that option?"

"No," she said. "I am afraid that I have an affinity for proud men. It is ultimately what drives a wedge between us." She finally turned her gaze to him in order to confess, "I do not even _like_ children all that much, to be honest." She laughed quietly, bitterly, before her tone softened. "I did very much want a family, though."

"Oh, Josephine." He could not form a response. Could not fix this for her.

"Not only have I lost that opportunity, but I am directly responsible for dissolving the family that I already had." A teardrop rolled down her cheek, and he offered her his last clean handkerchief. She put her hand up in refusal. "No, I will not lose myself over this. It would solve nothing."

He gazed at her incredulously and asked, "Do you mean to say that you have never grieved?" The stoic resolution on her face told him everything that he needed to know. "Josephine, you cannot continue to brush it aside, not when you have lost so much."

Her eyes pierced his so intensely that he repressed a shudder. "If I let myself grieve," she said, "I will drown. I will never come back up for air."

 _Not true_ , he wanted to say. _Ask me how I know._ But, presumably unlike her, he had been knocked down too many times to count, and he still continued to possess a resiliency unmatched in any other person he had encountered. It did nothing, really, to dissuade the illusion that he was something inhuman. Josephine, on the other hand…

No. She was strong, too. Certainly she had limits, but she had not met them yet. He wanted to reach out and grab her by the shoulders, shake some sense into her, tell her that she was being ridiculous just before he claimed her sweet mouth for his own and proceeded to physically enlighten her as to what a force of nature she could be.

But all it took was one look at her face to know that she had once again shut herself down to him, and all that remained was the shivering, sleep-addled body of a girl who just needed to be tucked in warmly for the night.

"Come, let's get you to bed," he entreated, offering her a hand as he got to his feet. "You have expended enough energy for the night." She accepted the offer graciously, and as he led her to her bedroom, she gave his hand an appreciative squeeze. In that moment, it was enough. It was everything.


	11. Uprising

Now entering her seventh week of veiled captivity, Josephine began to consider whether she might be going insane.

She was stir crazy at the very least. She missed daylight and fresh air, the ability to come and go as she pleased, her leisurely walks through the early spring growths at the Jardin des Tuileries.

And yet, there was a different kind of freedom in her living arrangement with Erik, one that she suspected would not have been present in her marriage: companionship without expectation. They argued, certainly, but only about things of substance and in ways that challenged her mindset, leaving her sharper and more discerning. And in other, more subtle moments, his company was as comfortingly familiar to her as sipping her morning coffee, rereading _Jane Eyre_ , or taking a hot bath before bed: all regular, unremarkable activities in their own right, but she always looked forward to them, always finished them feeling content.

She could also feel the gravitational pull between herself and the masked man, and she knew that if he were to act on it, as he had come so close to doing the night she fell ill, then she would not stop him. It would take only the slightest nudge on his part for her to plummet from her safe orbit and crash into him with unprecedented speed and fire. She was certain that it was not a good idea for that to happen.

Now more than ever, her work had become a means of escape. Contrary to the traditional order of things, the farther Josephine got from the set design process, the more she labored. It was in part to distance herself from the angel of music and his dark underworld, but more than that, she _craved_ it. As her imagined set pieces materialized on stage with her guidance and assistance, she experienced something of a natural high. She was also volunteering for tasks, becoming noticed, weaving herself into the tapestry of the Opera Populaire so that she might eventually become indispensable.

To be trusted to do what she did best, to have her ideas come to fruition: these were things, she thought, that had the most potential to sustain her in the long term. Perhaps those ideas could be the children that she carried within her, to later birth them and nurture them to maturity.

She tried not to think about how much Erik had so far been involved in their conception.

On this particular day, she was in the cavernous set workshop, crafting vines of green silk to wrap around the tall Greek columns featured in the Elysian Fields scene. Unfurled behind her was the massive backdrop that she had designed and assisted in painting: a magnificent cherry tree blossoming over a clear spring, the surrounding greenery dotted with wood violets, primrose, and forget-me-nots. Here, working contentedly amid her developing vision of paradise, she could almost forget that she was missing the arrival of spring in the city. Almost.

She worked well into the evening, determined to finish the last of the vines before she left in light of impending dress rehearsals. When at last she had finished, the evergreen leaves coiled around her like a low-lying jungle, the workshop and adjacent hallway were otherwise devoid of employees. She bundled the vines for the following day and walked to the atelier to return materials that she had borrowed.

She had expected wardrobe to be vacant as well and could not help but exclaim, "Oh!" at the sight of the Vicomtesse de Chagny rummaging through drawers of bobbins and thread. Equally startled, Christine let out a small gasp and slammed shut the drawer she had been investigating.

"My sincerest apologies, madame la vicomtesse," Josephine said quickly. "I had expected the room to be unoccupied." She turned to leave, but Christine stretched out a hand to stop her.

"No, no, I am the one intruding. Please, come in. Perhaps you know where I might find paper and pen? I was intending to leave a note for Mlle. Perotte."

"Certainly; I shall just put these things away first." Josephine rushed to return the materials to their rightful homes, sneaking quick glances at the other woman. Today the vicomtesse was attired in a frock of cornflower blue taffeta, the draped folds of the overskirt rippling down from her midsection as fluidly as a pond disturbed by an errant stone. She studied her fingernails idly, opening her mouth several times as if to speak, only to decide otherwise and close it again.

Finally, as Josephine raided the appropriate supply stores for pen and paper, Christine broke the silence. "Please forgive me. I recognize your face, but I am afraid I do not know your name."

"Josephine Arnaud, madame. I am currently in set design, and formerly from wardrobe."

The soprano's face brightened. "Oh, then perhaps you can offer advice! You see, I was to have my final fitting in the morning, but another engagement has come up. I had hoped Mlle. Perotte would still be here to do the fitting tonight. Do you think it will be a terrible inconvenience to postpone?"

"I could do it now," Josephine offered. "I would simply need to pin the garment and leave Mlle. Perrotte a note."

"I must confess, I had hoped you would say that."

Josephine closed the door to the workshop for privacy. She found Christine's Eurydice costume arranged on a dress form: a flowing Greek chiton of bone-white silk, with a gold belt and delicate grape-leaf shoulder clasps. With the garment draped over her arm, she led the singer to the three-panel screen that had been set up for the performers' final fittings, as was typical for this point in the production.

She assisted Christine in stripping off layers of taffeta and petticoats until all that remained were chemise, drawers, and corset. She was struck by the oddity of the corset, which had laces down either side of the front panel in addition to the usual ones down the back. She was still studying its construction, debating the impropriety of asking about it, when she noticed the small but unmistakable swell in Christine's abdomen.

The soprano followed her gaze downward and blushed. "Oh, dear, is it that obvious?" she fretted, her palms settling on the bump. "I had hoped that it would not be so noticeable yet."

Josephine averted her eyes and found her voice despite the familiar ache that seemed to hollow out her insides. "I beg your pardon," she apologized. "The corset took me by surprise, and I could not help but stare. I do not think it is outwardly apparent, though, at least not with the dress you have selected."

Christine's relief was palpable. "Thank heavens," she said on an exhalation of breath. "I just need to survive these last few weeks without incident. My returning to the stage a married woman was scandalous enough." Eyes pleading, she reached out to clasp Josephine's hands. "You will not tell anyone, will you? Mlle. Perrotte is the only other person in the company who knows."

"Of course not," Josephine assured her. She could only pray that Erik had the decency not to witness any of this.

The vicomtesse flashed her a small, grateful smile and squeezed her hands before pulling away. "I know how deceitful it must sound," she admitted. "I did not even share the news with the vicomte until a few weeks ago, after I had already committed to the opera—but I have been relying on this last performance to carry me through the changes that I face. It is selfish, I know."

"I understand," Josephine said, helping her into the costume. At least, she thought she understood, though she would have happily traded places with the other woman in that moment.

Christine held her arms perpendicular to her torso and examined the yards of fabric that hung from her shoulders. "Mlle. Perrotte assured me that there would be a lot of give in the midsection of the dress," she said, "but this seems excessive."

"Ah, but now we cinch it with the belt," Josephine replied, snatching up the gold rope that she had draped over the screen. "I think it will be perfect."

Once she had incorporated the belt and coordinating gold sandals, she had Christine stand on a platform in front of a full-length mirror while she began to tweak and pin the garment. The vicomtesse smiled at her own reflection initially, but each time Josephine glanced up, the woman's face had fallen more into something like wistfulness. Within minutes, she had burst into tears.

Josephine set down her pincushion. "Madame la vicomtesse?"

Christine held up a palm as if to say she was fine, but other other hand flew to her mouth to stifle her sobs, and then she was sinking into a sitting position on the platform. Unsure of the proper way to respond, Josephine opted to sit on the floor next to her, fishing a handkerchief out of her satchel.

Christine took the proffered handkerchief and used it to dab at her eyes and face. "I am so sorry," she said. "I am so easily affected these days. But, oh, I will miss all of this very much."

"You have spent quite a long time with the company; I imagine it feels like leaving home at this point."

"A long time, yes." The vicomtesse stared past her reflection at something unseen. "Only recently, though, had I begun to feel truly content. Do you know, Josephine, what it feels like to have influence? There is something almost intoxicating about it."

"Yes, I daresay I know what you mean." Josephine's eyes darted to Christine's midsection, now obscured by layers of fabric, and it suddenly struck her how quickly the beginning of one small life could induce the metaphorical end—or, perhaps more aptly, rebirth—of another.

Christine sighed, the tears subsiding, and shook her head. "There was a time, about a year ago, when I thought that I had lost and regained my freedom. Now I wonder whether I ever had it to begin with."

Josephine saw it now: prima donna and seamstress, two sides of the same coin, minted by society.

She considered how she had essentially let Erik carry on as though he owned her. She felt nearly as implicit in her own imprisonment as he was, and she vowed to change that. _Tonight_ , she resolved.

"My apologies; I'm afraid I have been far too candid," the vicomtesse said, forcing a small smile. "Please, do not mistake me. I am very happy and grateful for this blessing. It is just that sometimes, I…" She trailed off, looking down at her hands, and the color suddenly drained from her face. "Where did you get this?" she whispered, her eyes growing wide.

Josephine followed Christine's gaze down to the handkerchief, which had a single red rose stitched into its corner. Her stomach flipped. "I can hardly remember," she lied. "I may have found it backstage."

Christine stared at it for another few seconds. "It looks quite like one that I have seen before," she said slowly, "but I am likely mistaken." She began to pull herself to her feet, graciously accepting Josephine's outstretched hand for assistance. "Well! Shall we get back to the dress, then, Mlle. Arnaud?" Her smile was warm now, and Josephine was vaguely aware of something important having passed between them.

She made quick work of the fitting, pinned a note to the mannequin for Mlle. Perotte, and walked Christine to the managers' offices to find her husband, all the while wondering whether Erik would be cross with her for staying so late that evening. _It would not be an issue if he did not supervise and escort you like an inmate_ , she reminded herself, and her resolve to confront him was renewed.

But he was not waiting for her when she arrived at their usual meeting spot in the cellars. She stayed in place for a good ten minutes, even called his name, but there was no evidence of his being there. It was an unprecedented absence. Her mind flashed back to her first staff meeting; she had never warned him that people of power knew of his possible return.

She hurried down to the lowest cellar and descended the ladder into the canal. The boat, which Erik had secured at the base of the ladder that morning, was gone. Without hesitation, she lowered herself into the water and splashed toward Erik's home as quickly as her legs would allow.

Her thighs were burning, her lungs screaming, by the time she reached the entrance. The boat was moored outside as though it had never left; her brain could not make sense of it. She lifted her waterlogged skirts to ascend the stairs and enter the sitting room, terrified of what she might find.

It was quiet. Erik sat at his desk, surrounded by books and documents, his pen scratching feverishly across a sheet of paper. Her legs nearly buckled beneath the weight of her relief, and she moved to grip the side of the pipe organ amid the jumble of emotions that now flooded her brain.

The movement caught his attention. "Josephine," he remarked, startled, and he pulled out his pocket watch to examine it. "My apologies. I was caught up in today's work and apparently lost track of the time." His eyes widened as he took in her wet attire. "Did you truly wade through the water to get here? Perhaps it is time for me to show you the other entrance."

She ignored the change of subject. " _Today's_ work? Do you mean to say that you have done this on other days?"

He stood, palms upturned in deference. "What would you have me do, Josephine? Spend every minute tracking you through the opera house when I have my own interests to attend to?"

"Well, that is certainly what you made me _believe_ that you were doing!" Fury and shame burned a hole into her chest. "I agreed to our truce, Erik. Do you really have so little faith in me after all this time?" His mouth opened and closed without reply, and the uncomfortable silence sufficiently answered her question.

Tears stung her eyes, but she somehow willed them not to fall. "I suppose that is fair," she said quietly. "I do not have the best record, even if I _did_ try to save your life." She could not help the bitterness that laced her remark. "I just thought—I thought that we—" She was unable to put it into words, this thing between them, and she was unsettled into silence when he crossed over to stop only inches away. Even without his fedora, he had a significant height advantage over her. She recalled their first meeting, when she could not help but be awestruck by his physical prowess despite her fear.

"You thought that we what?" he murmured. He was too close, and he knew it. It was a strategic maneuver, employed with the ease of a superior mind; in that moment, the only thing that sounded more exhilarating to her than touching him was the sudden notion of beating him at his own game. But first, she decided, she would give him an easy out.

She made herself take a step back. "I am afraid that I deluded myself into thinking you considered me your equal, Erik." Oh, she had his attention now. "Alas, no one can ever truly be equal to those who define their boundaries."

"And how do you intend to address this inequality?" he asked. His eyes were hardening, losing some of their earlier sultriness.

" _Trust me_ ," she begged. "Return my freedom. Let me come and go as I choose, with no strings attached."

He lowered his head and set a hand on the organ console. She watched him repeatedly clench and release the hand, which gave way to a quick, methodical flexing of each digit, pinky to thumb, as though he were playing a rapid scale on the wood. She heard the measured intake and exhale of every breath, and it felt like a hundred of them before he finally spoke, never meeting her gaze. "I am sorry, Josephine, but I cannot." He offered no further explanation. For someone so hell-bent on self-expression, he could be terribly inscrutable.

She nodded and bit her lip. "I was afraid of that," she said. "I think, perhaps, that I have overestimated you, Opera Ghost. You ought to have learned your lesson a year ago."

She did not need to see his face to know that her barb had wounded him, for the faintest tightening of his shoulders gave him away. She felt an immediate sting of regret; perhaps she had been too cold. But the hurt in her chest was still raw, and she did not retract her statement. "I am going to change out of these wet clothes," she said, and she slipped past him and out into the hallway toward her room.

Once inside, she stripped down to her chemise and then opened the wardrobe to extract the ethereal rose-and-gold silk peignoir that she had been taken with since day two. It slid over her bare arms like warm butter; she shivered at its exquisiteness. She belted the robe with the wide gold ribbon looped around its bodice, and then she took a moment to regard herself in the mirror: The nightdress was just narrow enough to caress the outline of her hips without being too snug, and the translucency of the fabric teased perfectly at her state of near undress.

Josephine padded back to the drawing room, the cold floor numbing her bare feet. Erik now sat at the organ, staring at the keys, and he looked so morose that she almost retreated back into the hallway. But he spotted her within seconds—roaming eyes taking in her figure from head to toe, lips parting wordlessly—and her counterattack was thus set into motion.

"What are you doing, Josephine?" The words came out as more of a warning than a question.

"As it stands," she informed him, "I now have sufficient funds to take my leave." That startled him. It was a lie, of course; she had grown so comfortable in her arrangements with Erik that she had been sending extra money to her parents. She was close to her goal, but she would have to spend some nights in the atelier again.

"Since you insist on remaining bound to the terms of our agreement," she continued, sidling over to his desk, "I am now offering myself to you. I know that you were to determine the time and place, but I think we can agree that our time is just about up. So tell me, where do you want to have me?"

She could see his fingers flexing again at his sides. "Josephine," he said, "This is hardly appropriate." Perhaps he had meant to scold her, but the way his voice faltered mid-sentence spoke volumes. She went in for the kill.

"Oh, don't tell me you have never thought about it. I was thinking like this." She swept the contents of the desk to the floor, bent over, and lay her chest on the surface, angling her backside toward him. He was gaping at her now. "This way," she explained over her shoulder, "you will not even have to look at my face. If you insist on remaining a brute, you might as well commit."

He snapped his mouth shut. "That is _enough_. Stand up."

She straightened and turned to face him. He was staring at her with an unreadable expression, running a hand over his chestnut hair. He removed his black tailcoat, draped it over the organ, and began to take slow, measured strides toward her. Her heart started hammering against her rib cage, and she wondered whether she ought to have mulled over this plan longer, considered all possible outcomes.

A few feet away, Erik stopped and exhaled his frustration through his nose. "You want to force my hand, Josephine? Fine. I release you from the damned agreement." He turned his back to her to gather the discarded desk items from the floor, and she let go of the breath she had not even realized she'd been holding.

"Thank you," she whispered, moving out of his way. But now what? Her hastily devised plan had not gone so far as to address what to do when she broke him. _Now we can be equals_ , she thought, but he spoke first.

"You are free to go," he said tersely, still facing away from her as he returned the desk to its original state. "As it so happens, I have just secured an engagement elsewhere and plan to leave after opening night. I would be most grateful if you kept my existence and whereabouts to yourself until then." He sat down and returned to his writing as though the past fifteen minutes had not existed.

She stared at his back for a long moment. She was not used to seeing him without his tailcoat; the black silk waistcoat and pleated white shirt beneath it hugged his shoulders and torso, making him look more casual but very much emphasizing his masculine frame. She felt a stab of longing in the pit of her stomach.

"So that's it, then?" she asked. "Shall I see myself out, since you apparently have no other use for me?"

He froze but did not turn around. "Given that your expressed wish was _not_ to be used, I fail to understand how that is a problem."

"I did not intend for us to part like this."

"Then what, pray tell, did you hope to accomplish by abasing me into surrender?"

And then the tears were back, a sob lurking at the base of her throat. "I...I really cannot say. I—"

He slammed his fist against the desk, making her flinch. "Stop _hedging_ , Josephine!" he shouted. He stood and whirled around, striding over to her with his index finger extended accusingly. "This timid equivocation does not suit you. Just say what it is that you _want_."

"You," she whispered, surprising even herself. "I want you."

He stared at her, stunned, for what was possibly the longest moment of her life. Then he reached for the back of her head, and his lips were crushing hers as though he never wanted to breathe again.


	12. All at Once

_Hello! This is your friendly reminder that this story has, and is quite deserving of, an M rating._

 _I've never written anything like this chapter before. I hope it works, and please leave a review in the tip jar if you're so inclined_ _—even as a guest if you're shy. :)_

* * *

When he first pressed his lips to hers, Josephine sensed that Erik was no longer Erik, but instead the Phantom of the Opera. It made her blood freeze.

The pressure from his mouth was like a dam bursting in the wake of a flood: fearsome, primal, unyielding. In one dizzying moment, as he curled an arm tight around her waist, she considered that he might actually intend to suffocate her.

Finally, he broke free and they surfaced the riptide, each gasping in a breath of air before their mouths found each other again. The pressure began to dissipate, coming in waves instead of a rush, until their lips and tongues began to move together in a deep, slow ebb and flow. Her arms encircled his neck for balance.

Never had she experienced anything like this.

She briefly considered the men she had been with. Kissing them had been a means to an end; she had never quite understood its appeal. She would endure the moments of sloppy, unfeeling execution for as long as she could until she finally turned her face away, with the pretense of offering up the tender skin of her neck and jawline.

This was not that kind of contact. It was something wholly intimate, an attempt to extract knowledge of one's physical person and, for her and Erik, the last in a line of connections to form between them.

It was wonderful and raw and terrifying.

It almost made her forget her encounter with Christine. Christine, the model wife whom everyone—including Josephine—could not help but adore, whose voice was like gold and whose womb was magnificently fruitful. Fresh anguish churned in her gut.

She sank into Erik's lips harder, deeper, as she made a desperate move for his waistcoat, her fingers fumbling at the top button.

He drew back with a sharp intake of breath and gently pushed her arms to her sides, where he held them in place. "Slow down, Josephine."

"Why should I?" She knew why, of course, but it was easier to delude herself into thinking that he did not see right through her.

He leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers. She could hear and feel his breath, steady and warm on her face. The rhythm brought with it a sense of calm that slowed her heartbeat and unwound the muscles in her shoulders. Oh, he was good.

"I do not want you to do anything you might regret later," he said quietly.

She took a moment to close her eyes and drink in the nearness of him. When he released her arms, she was content to put her hands on his waist and enjoy the solidity of muscle and flesh beneath her fingertips. She felt her body exude a contented sigh: _finally_.

She did not want to think about what was happening, what it meant. She only knew that she did not want to be physically separated from him any longer. She wanted to fold herself into him and remain there forever, perhaps emerging only to eat and sketch.

"You started it," she said.

"Touché. But you tell me when to stop."

Her answer was instantaneous as her grip on him tightened: "Never." And their lips found each other again.

It should have been difficult, kissing him with a mask over the deformed right half of his upper lip. Amid her haze of lust, she did not even think to try and remove it. They adapted quickly, though, favoring the left side of his mouth, as well as the succulent bottom lip on which she hungrily lavished attention, possessing it with her own lips and teeth.

There was a sudden, electrifying brush against her abdomen, and she opened her eyes to find Erik untying the sash of her peignoir, working loose the front knot with his long, dexterous fingers. It was surreal, as though she were watching him undress someone else.

He pulled the ends of the ribbon apart, and then his fingers were at her collarbone, sliding the gauzy fabric off of each shoulder. The garment pooled delicately around her ankles to leave her standing in her chemise. She shivered as the cold underground air hit her exposed arms and legs, and Erik drew back to regard her.

"You are cold," he observed.

"But _you_ are warm," she said. She moved forward to tuck her fingers into his waistband, in that tender gap between trousers and shirt, and she felt his abdominal muscles contract at her touch. The sudden need to become better acquainted with those muscles overrode any level-headed thoughts that might have otherwise been floating around in the back of her mind.

She pressed her cheek to the unmasked half of his face. "My bed is also warm," she whispered. She kissed her way up his jawline and caught his earlobe in her teeth with a gentle tug.

She heard and felt his shaky exhalation of breath as it caressed the sensitive spot where neck met shoulder. Without waiting for a reply, she began to walk backward toward the door, tugging at his waistband so that he was forced to follow. Ever prepared, he found a lamp to illuminate their path as she led him out of the sitting room and down the hall.

Once in her room, Erik set the lamp on her bedside table and turned to regard her. A moment of awkward uncertainty passed between them, as though they were a pair of shy teenagers, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

Finally, he reached for her waist and pulled her to him. He began pressing soft, fluttering kisses into the corners of her mouth—a brief respite for her already swollen and tingling lips—as his hands splayed and roamed the surface of her body.

He felt along her thighs until he found the lacy hem of her chemise, and he slipped his hands underneath the white fabric. She both heard and felt his sharp inhalation when he palmed the curve of her rear, confirming that there was nothing underneath the garment. His hands were cool on her skin, but as they grazed past her thighs to settle on her hips, they left a trail of fire in their wake. All the while, his mouth remained on hers, his tongue pulling hers into a heated dance.

His hands traveled upward again, past her waist and up her rib cage to settle just short of the soft swells of her breasts. She could not help but emit a small moan of frustration.

"Patience, Josephine," he murmured.

In one fluid movement, he had tugged the chemise over her head and tossed it aside with an indelicacy not at all befitting him.

Then all was still. She now stood completely exposed to him, and his gaze did not waver from her figure. She could not help but feel that he was somehow seeing _past_ her skin, now that she had lowered her defenses, and she grew more anxious with every second. A flush crept over her skin, and she curled her forearms around her waist to hide the scar on her abdomen.

"No," he said quietly. He brushed her arms aside and began to trace the purple line with the pad of his thumb.

She could not stand it; she knew that he would feel just how empty she was beneath that mark of shame. She tried to reintroduce her hands, which made him growl in frustration and hoist her onto the edge of the bed.

"I dare you to look at this face again," he snapped, pointing to his mask, "and then tell me how burdensome you find your scar."

Guiltily, she looked down at her lap. "It is not so much the mark itself as what it symbolizes," she said.

He drew closer, his knees nudging her bare legs wide open to accommodate his frame. She nearly balked at the shock and indecency of such brazen exposure, but his focus was on her face. "If anything, it is a testament of your strength and survival," he insisted. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to one of the tender pulse points just below her jaw. She closed her eyes, distantly aware of her breathing becoming shallower.

"It reminds me that I am incomplete," she whispered. "Less of a woman."

"Ridiculous," he murmured into her neck, "and proof of the ineptitude of your recent line of paramours."

She was too surprised to protest when he lifted her and practically tossed her lengthwise onto the center of the bed. When he did not join her, instead stepping aside to unbutton his waistcoat, she draped the bedspread over her body and propped herself up on one elbow to watch. His execution was clinical, but the way in which he maintained eye contact cut her like a lance, dragging a line of fire from her chest down to the apex of her legs. He shrugged the impeccably tailored garment off of his shoulders and draped it over the foot of the bed.

"Do you trust me?" he asked. His fingers moved to untie the white silk cravat at his neck.

"Yes." It was almost unsettling how quickly she responded.

He slid the tie from his collar and kept it with him as he slid onto the bed. He reached for her, and she had a sudden vision of the necktie tightening around her throat, of herself clawing at it as she gasped for air, of her skin turning purple like that of her attacker near the catacombs. Still, she did not move. _Could_ not move.

Instead, Erik pulled her wrists over her head, up to the intricately carved apex of the wooden headboard. It was here that he looped the necktie through the carved-out wood before wrapping it around her wrists, thus securing her hands to the bed. She gaped at him and rasped, "What are you doing?"

"Ending this preposterous notion that you ought to be ashamed of your body. Tell me, Josephine, how did you learn to swim?"

What was this madness?! But curiosity got the better of her, and she answered, "All at once. My father dropped me into the sea and said, 'Now swim back to shore.'"

He nodded. "Precisely." He yanked off the bedspread so that she was once again exposed and vulnerable, positioning himself between her legs to hover over her. He paid her no heed as she gasped, instead pressing his lips to the side of her neck.

A small sigh escaped her throat, and she closed her eyes. "And what would you have done had that metaphor not worked?" she asked.

"Adapted my speed and comparison accordingly."

"I _will_ get you back for this."

"I have no doubt."

His swollen lips lingered at her neck for another moment before they began a sojourn southward, blazing a trail over her clavicle and through the valley of her breastbone, brushing against the gently sloping peaks of flesh on either side, stopping to rest at her navel. Her stomach muscles clenched at his touch. When he dipped below her midsection, her eyes shot open and she could not help but pull at her restraints.

Erik paused to glance up at her. The dark, heady resolution in his eyes encapsulated everything about him that she found thrilling and terrifying. "Clearly, no one has told you how desirable you are."

He seized her hips and pressed his mouth tenderly to the edge of the scar, raking warm, wet lips across its thin purple flesh. His attentions felt almost like _worship_.

She started to relax and shut her eyes once more. The knots in her belly were subsiding, giving way to a dangerous heat.

When Erik's lips reached the end of the scar tissue, they began to deviate, trailing instead across her pelvis, down one hip, and then— _oh, God_ —over to the inside of her thigh. A whimper escaped her throat, and she thought that she felt him smile against her skin.

His hands moved down to grip her thighs, forcing them even farther apart. She barely had time to assess what was happening before he leaned in to capture with his lips that most sensitive nub between her legs. She cried out and tossed her head back as he worked to tease a reaction from seemingly every nerve ending in her lower body. When his tongue began delivering slow strokes as well, she clenched her fingers until she was certain that the knuckles on either hand had turned white.

She was stunned by the rapidity with which Erik had taken the lead. Hadn't she initiated this encounter? Her mind was so hazy that she could barely remember how she had come to be on the bed. Every movement of his was sudden and decisive, robbing her of breath at all turns. Here was an echo of the man who, she suspected, had once demanded control in all things—but now, in this moment, she did not mind so much. She gave herself over to the pull of his lips, the swirl of his tongue, and was content to lie writhing in a cloud of euphoria.

She had nearly grown accustomed to the rhythm of his movements when he thrust a finger inside of her, his mouth never leaving its post, and she was practically bucked off of her cloud and into the stratosphere. Her small moans punctuated the tense silence as he began to slide the digit back and forth with devastating precision, playing her as he might play his instrument, coaxing new and intimate sounds from her larynx.

It was too much—the pressure of finger and lips and tongue, the intimate knowledge that he desired her. Her legs started to tremble, and that was evidently his cue to pick up speed. The tempo of his pistoning finger grew to match that of her beating heart. Her legs shook harder. He closed his lips tightly on her and tugged, and that was it—she was done for.

White light exploded into her vision as almost unbearable pleasure shot out from the center of her body. She arched her back and cried out, her wrists pulling at their restraints as her body convulsed. Erik had stopped torturing her with his movements but deftly introduced a second finger, making it all the more delicious as her muscles spasmed around him.

As the convulsions weakened into tiny shudders, she became aware that she was panting. Erik withdrew his fingers and she whimpered yet again, her eyelids fluttering open to find him. He was still positioned between her legs, his eyes burning with lust as he waited for her to find herself again.

She gazed at him in wonder. You _are not my Erik_ , she wanted to say, but that was not true. He had always been sensuous, always aware of and attentive to her needs; she had just never granted him unfettered access before. She wanted to laugh at how much the world had thus far underestimated this genius of a man.

"Do you feel womanly enough yet?" he asked, his voice low and heady.

Forget being a human: she felt as though she might to turn into a liquid, spill back onto the bed, and remain there until she evaporated. "No," she baited him. "You gave me pleasure but took none for yourself. How am I to interpret that?"

His eyes blazed. "You would be remiss to make that assumption." He extricated himself from the bed, and her heart picked up speed again as he untucked his white silk shirt and began to unbutton the cuffs, followed by each of the buttons from the collar down to the hem.

He removed the shirt to expose a pale, lean chest and stomach, riddled with his own faded scars, and she longed to reach out and run her fingers across them. "I changed my mind," she whispered. "You can untie me now."

"Oh, can I?" he replied, eyes twinkling. He stayed put, his hands moving instead to the fastenings of his trousers. She all but stopped breathing as he worked at them, and then he disrobed completely from the waist down.

He seemed hyperaware of her gaze and moved quickly onto the bed, where he positioned himself between her legs so that his torso hovered above hers. "I just want to ensure that you are _fully_ confident before I release you," he said, and he bent down to her chest to pull a pert pink bud into his mouth.

She did not hesitate to emit a small yelp of pleasure now; he had earned it. "But you have not removed your mask," she protested, even as he gave her peak a long, tantalizing tug before tracing its circumference with his tongue.

"And I do not plan to." He was suckling now, his hand moving in to knead the flesh below his mouth.

She groaned and writhed beneath him. "You wanted to before, the night I kissed you."

"I was under the influence of alcohol, and it is not up for discussion." He nipped at her lightly.

"Hypocrite," she rasped as she arched her back again. Oh, dear God, she was going to _burn_ without his cool skin smothering her to douse the flames.

She hooked her legs around his hips and, with a show of newfound abdominal strength, lifted her lower body from the bed to buck against him. He groaned into her chest and wrapped his arms around her back to hold her there. In that moment, the only thing anchoring her to the bed was the necktie around her wrists, as though the rest of her body were floating away.

She could feel the heat and hardness of him on her lower abdomen, and she moved her hips against him once more. He whispered an expletive, the first she had ever heard him utter.

"Please," she begged, and he pulled his face back to stare at her in wonder. "Please, Erik."

He hesitated and then lowered her back onto the mattress, peeling her legs from his waist. Her face burned with disappointment until she realized that he was leaning forward to untie her.

He made quick work of the silken knots, and as soon as she was free, she raked her fingertips down his chest, around his hips, and back up his spine. He let out a long shudder.

She twined her fingers around the back of his neck and pulled his face down to hers. " _Now_ ," she said huskily, "or I will see to it that you do not walk for days." She brushed his lower lip with her tongue.

Something in his face darkened. He lowered himself so that their thighs pressed against each other, and then he paused. She felt his restraint, like the coil of a spring awaiting its release. When she searched his face, she recognized his hesitation, and she knew what he must be thinking because she was now thinking it, too. _This will change everything_.

But it was too late to reconsider. She was on fire: lustful, all-consuming flames that exploded from her lower abdomen and crackled across her chest and through her limbs. Past the point of no return. She caught his gaze and nodded.

His arousal rubbed against her, slick with both her residual and her renewed desire; she let out a long, frustrated moan. Without warning, he pushed into her in one long thrust, and they both gasped. It was like finding the sole key to fit into a lock, granting access to glorious, brand-new, uncharted territory. She wrapped her legs around him to hold him there, her arms still encircling his neck. _Stay. Do not_ ever _pull back._

His breath was shallow as he began to move inside of her, slowly at first. Too slowly. She bucked her hips again to urge him on, and he increased his pace, hissing the word "vixen" into her ear.

Her grip on his neck loosened, and with each thrust she dug her fingertips further into his shoulder muscles, making an effort to keep her nails from his skin—though she supposed she would just be leaving bruises instead of cuts. This was the most complete she had ever felt, or possibly would ever feel. She shut her eyes tightly in order to drink it in, and she began to give credence to Erik's claim from so many weeks ago that darkness was best way to heighten the senses.

As their hips rocked against each other, his mouth found hers again. His breathing had grown heavier with exertion, and he plied her lips more desperately, more sporadically now. She felt one bead of sweat—and then another—fall from his skin onto hers. Below her neck, though, she could not tell where she ended and he began.

The tingling heat in her core began to build again, deeper and more intense than before. She emitted regular whimpers at their most intimate points of contact, hoping the sounds would urge him on, but he kept his steady pace. It was when she started to grind against him, forcing her own, faster rhythm on him, that he exhaled loudly and picked up speed.

She hitched her legs around his waist and angled herself to be more perpendicular to him, allowing him to plunge even deeper as he slammed into her. Her reactions were no longer in her control. Her mouth dropped open at the intensity of his movements, and her fingers permanently locked into his shoulder blades. Her ears were treated to the intimate, rhythmic slapping of skin against skin.

He bent down to her chest to pull a soft peak into his mouth again, and that was it. A ragged cry tore from her lips as she experienced a jolt of pleasure so severe that it practically ached in her bones. She felt him slow so that she could ride it out, her hips rising to meet his, and heard him hiss as her muscles clenched around him again and again and again.

When the flames subsided, she sank back into the mattress, with only her legs still attempting any sort of effort. But it was enough: a few more quick thrusts and Erik followed her off of the precipice, gasping her name as his pelvis dug into hers. She smiled muzzily and tightened her legs around him until he had spent himself inside of her. Then she let her limbs slide off of him like dead weight.

He collapsed on the pillow next to her, his loud breathing mingling with hers as they waited to regain control of their faculties. She managed to locate his hand and twine her fingers through his, and they lay like that for minutes or for an hour—she could not say.

Eventually, though, Josephine grew cold and uncomfortable, the insides of her legs still slippery with the evidence of their coupling. "I am going to wash up," she said, and she darted into the bathroom for privacy.

She made haste in the washroom, her teeth now chattering from the cold water that rinsed her skin. She knew that this new development required introspection, and probably an inevitable talk with Erik, but she was still pleasantly drowsy and had no interest in drawing her brain out of this hazy post-coital state.

When she emerged from the washroom, Erik was gone. He had made up the bed and taken his clothes, thereby eliminating any evidence of what had just transpired. She felt a lump in her throat.

They had skipped supper, but she could not bring herself to face him just then. So, instead, she donned her undergarments and a nightgown and slipped under the covers. The bed seemed unbearably large now.

She was on her side, floating in the odd transitional space between waking and dreaming, when she felt the weight of another body on the mattress. Her eyes flickered halfway open to find Erik sliding in next to her, now clad in some kind of silk pajama. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed a long, tender kiss to her lips. She smiled; she could live with this.

At that thought, though, something tickled the back of her mind: Had he said he would be leaving? She needed to ask him. It was important. But before the thought could reach her lips, she drifted off to sleep.


	13. Afterthought

_So sorry for the delay. I was struck down by the flu, in late April! The nerve!_

 _As always, I would love to hear your thoughts._

* * *

Erik stirred early in the morning, woken by the sharp grousing of a stomach denied a meal. He moved to light the lamp on the bedside table, fumbling every step of the way amid the darkness and the unfamiliar feel of Josephine's room.

When at last the warm glow illuminated the bed, he saw that his movements had not wakened her. She lay with her back to him, her hair having partially escaped its bun to tangle over her back. She was clothed in a nightgown the color of fresh cream, and the fabric hugging her figure highlighted delicate shoulder blades and hips. He was overcome by the need to touch her.

He tugged the collar of the gown aside and let his lips ghost along her shoulder and neck. She roused slowly. When she turned to face him, she smiled through a tousle of ash-brown curls and stretched forward to draw a languid, open-mouthed kiss from his lips. "Good morning," she said, her voice seductively hoarse with sleep. "We should eat."

"Mm," he affirmed. He reclaimed her mouth and reveled in the sweet, wet suction sounds that followed. "We should." The kissing continued.

He wrapped an arm around her, letting his hand roam down her backside toward the hem of her chemise, and she swatted at him. "I mean it," she said. "I am seconds away from gnawing on your arm."

He let out an exaggerated sigh and retracted said arm to allow for her escape.

He saw to it that breakfast was fast and simple: coffee, bread, preserves. He practically resented it; he wanted nothing more than to take her back to the bedroom. He could tell that she sensed his indignation from the way that she kept biting back a smile, which only served to draw his attention to her bottom lip. Oh, sweet torture.

Toward the end of the meal, Erik became aware of Josephine staring at him intently as he drained the last of his coffee. When he set down the cup, she asked, "Did you actually sleep with your mask on?"

"I did."

She returned her own cup to its saucer with a gentle _clink_ and folded her hands on the table. "Erik, do you trust me?" she asked.

His mouth went dry. He had never felt more uncertain than in that moment, not because he did not trust her, but because he knew what she intended to do.

He was fortunate in that she did not misread his hesitation. Instead, her black-brown irises—soft with reassurance—sought his mismatched ones, and she reached across the table to clasp his hand. "Get in bed," she said softly, "and wait for me. I will be along shortly."

* * *

His breath caught when she appeared in the doorway. She was wearing the peignoir again, but devoid of all undergarments this time. The translucent silk strained against her chest as she climbed onto the bed, and he could make out the tawny buds of flesh on which he had so willingly lavished his attention the night before. Would he ever tire of tasting the salt of her skin? He did not think so.

She sat on her knees on the mattress, and her fingers moved to untie her sash. She parted the two panels of trimmed silk wrapped around her torso to reveal a wide swath of ivory skin, neck to thighs, before picking up Erik's hand to set his trembling fingers against the scar low on her abdomen. "Let me do this for you," she said. "All at once."

He traced the paper-thin indentation for the second time, stunned by her newfound confidence. When his fingers found the end of the scar, they splayed across her warm belly. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the gentle rise and fall of her abdomen under his palm, and then he nodded.

He felt her pull away from his touch, and when he opened his eyes again she was sliding a leg over him in order to straddle his waist. He watched her steady herself, hands on his stomach, before she tugged the peignoir sash free of its belt loops.

And then she was reaching for his arms, mimicking his actions from the night before with a focus that was both delicious and terrifying. Her soft breasts nearly brushed his face as she bound his wrists to the headboard, but—God help him—he was too anxious to take advantage. His heart raged against the confines of his chest.

When she was finished, Josephine gave a small tug to test her handiwork. He did not have the heart to tell her how easily he could have freed himself; it was the principle of the thing, after all.

Her hands were artist's hands, nimble and methodical. Had he never watched her work, it still would have been easy for him to picture those fingers dragging charcoal across paper or arranging Crêpe de Chine. By extension, there was an air of professionalism in the way her hands moved to unmask him that helped to quell his misgivings.

She lifted the mask and hairpiece from his person and set them on the bedside table before she looked at him—really, _truly_ looked at him. Her eyes darted over the swollen crest of his cheekbone, the cruel indentations around his malformed nose, the sickly pink length of twisted flesh running parallel to his jaw. He searched her face for the fear and revulsion that he had come to expect—after all, he did not know what _else_ to expect—but she remained stoic, clinical.

And then her fingertips alighted like gossamer butterfly wings on the ridge of his cheek. She began to trace every misshapen contour of his face with such delicacy that it didn't matter that her fingers were dry and calloused; his stomach flipped again and again in response to the barrage of new sensations.

When her fingertips finished their tour at his dry lips, she replaced them with her warm mouth. The kiss was deep, urgent, almost painful in its force, and her fingers twined through the coarse strands of hair dotting his scalp. He gasped, his eyes beginning to prickle with the formation of hot tears, but the gasp emerged as more of a choking sound in his attempt to maintain composure. She pulled back to regard him with concern.

"Josephine," he breathed, taking in the depth of her eyes, the flush of her chest. "I do not deserve this."

"Shush," she said. She pressed her mouth just below his left eye, the brown one, and he felt her tongue dart out to capture a drop of saltwater that had settled on his skin. She sighed. "Oh, Erik. I wonder what it will take to break you of this mental barrier."

"Physical barrier," he corrected her.

She cocked her head, gave him a wry smile that made his insides churn. "Mmm. Is it?" Her naked legs still splayed across his waist, she kept one hand anchored on his stomach while the other traveled back behind her, down the gentle slope of his pelvis, to fumble with the fastenings of his trousers. And then her hand was on him, tight and warm, and all of his attention migrated from his face southward.

A blur of pleasure later, and she had divested him of his clothing and was lowering herself onto him, her head tilting back to provide an easy exit for the contented sigh that escaped her lungs. Once he was sheathed within her, she sought out his gaze. "Clearly," she said, "no one has told you how desirable you are."

It was overwhelming: his own words reflected back at him; the sensation of her claiming his body as her own; the fact that her eyes, turning hazy with lust, did not once stray from his face as she began to rock against him. His bottom lip quivered. How was this happening? _How?_

Her pace was slow at first. _Largo_. As he absorbed her fluid rhythm, he heard—no, _felt_ —music. _She_ was the music. He stared at her in wonder, his breath thick and heady, and his mind tracked the melody of her movements.

She emitted a small, throaty moan, and he almost smiled as the note wove its way into his mind's concerto as a viola. Of _course_ she was a viola: at once both muted and robust, sensuous and austere—a mellow, understated tone that sounded richer and rounder with every second of exposure, capable of a respectable solo but so often relegated to a supporting role.

Supporting role or not, before him was a concerto for viola: warm, reedy, introspective viola. Had anyone ever truly pulled off a viola concerto? Alessandro Rolla? Bach, within the Brandenburg Concertos? It did not matter. He would write one, and it would pay the instrument its dues. The work was practically writing itself before his eyes in the form of a pale, undulating goddess. Why he had _ever_ thought that he could have only one muse in his life?

Her tempo increased ever so slightly. _Adagio_. The second movement. He was struck dumb by the way that she took her own pleasure, seeming to revel in the feel of him while his face lay unmasked before her. And it felt wonderful to him, too, to be enveloped by her sweet, writhing warmth. He briefly wished that his hands had been free to roam over muscle and sinew, to seize her hips—but then her lovely cadence would be interrupted, its building sweetness scattered into dissonance.

And so he watched her hips roll, watched her eclipse him entirely, her breath escaping in small puffs. She kept her eyes locked with his with such devotion that he could hardly stand it. A desperate mewl rose from her throat, and she vaulted into the third movement of his mind's concerto, bucking against him with increased fervor. _Allegro_.

"Erik," she whimpered. " _My_ Erik." He could sense that it was a herculean effort on her part to keep her eyelids open.

"Yes," he whispered, nearly choking on the word. "Yours."

She shattered. Her neck and head spasmed backward, the strings of her larynx dragging a rasping cry from her in one long crescendo. He remained silent in awe through the end of her performance, when she collapsed against his bare chest and her muscles convulsed around him. He took stock of all that had just occurred with no mask between them.

He allowed five long, torturous seconds for her recovery before he tore his wrists free of their binding and hauled her up to his eye level. She gasped into his mouth as it devoured hers with savage abandon, as he wound his fingers into the damp, dark hair plastered to her neck and jaw. The saline sweat of her skin mingled with the hot, briny tears coating his face to leave the two of them warm and wet and salty, as though caught in a sea spray on a sticky summer afternoon.

Another deft movement, and he had slipped out from under her to shuck the trousers roped around his ankles. She settled onto her stomach and propped herself up on her forearms to watch him, a nubile sphinx, her legs parted just enough to allow him access. He did not hesitate. He planted his knees on either side of her thighs and leaned forward to plunge into her, making her cry out and grip the sheets. His hands kneaded flesh; his lips and tongue and teeth sought out beads of moisture along her spine as he worked himself inside her at a relentless pace. _Vivace_.

The whole bed shook. Her upper body buckled until she lay flat against the mattress, the bedclothes muffling her cries. He could feel himself slipping away, the tightness building in his gut. In one final motion he clenched her hips, lifted them off the bed entirely, and pulled her back hard to meet him. In the splitting release that followed, he dug his fingers into her pelvis and heard a string of sounds so animalistic that he barely recognized them as coming from his own throat.

He released Josephine with some reluctance, collapsing to her side with his face turned away so that she would not see the fresh tears that singed his skin. He did not know why he could not stop crying. Was not love supposed to be happy? And yet he was certain that this was love, despite it seeming in all ways to the contrary: deep, rough-hewn, harrowing. It hardly seemed fair that he should be allowed to feel it, after everything he had done, after everything he had taken from others.

Josephine moved in closer to cleave to him, her fingertips tracing lines across his back and shoulder blades. He felt her breath on the back of his neck when she spoke. "As much as I enjoy your presence in my bed, Erik, I must request that you leave so I can get ready for work." She kissed along his shoulder. "Do you need me to roll you off?"

He grunted. "Don't you dare, woman."

Convinced that his eyes had dried, he turned to her and laid claim to her mouth one last time before he managed to push himself to his feet.

* * *

When she found him again, he had washed and dressed and was absorbed in paperwork at his desk. The mask he kept off but within reach. She ran a hand across his back and kissed his cheek before taking up residence on the loveseat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her begin sketching, an activity that she normally reserved for the evenings, and he had a sneaking suspicion that he was her subject. Still, he did not protest. His heart was so full that he thought it might burst.

"Erik," she said, a few minutes later.

"Hmm?"

"You said that you were leaving after opening night."

He froze. In his head, he cursed a thousand times over; how could he have forgotten something so substantial? "I had planned to, yes," he said. He set down his pen but found his gaze rooted the surface of the desk. "I still plan to."

There was a long pause. Her reply, when it came, was barely audible. "Where?"

"Venice."

"So far away?" Her voice quavered ever so slightly, and like a shot he was on his feet, closing the distance between them to kneel next to where she sat on the loveseat.

He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. "Come with me."

Her eyes grew wide. "I—I don't even know Italian."

"Oh, come now. You are a quick study; you would learn."

"And what would I do there, Erik?"

"Anything you desire. You would not have to lift a finger; I would see to it that you were provided for. You could spend your days painting the canals and piazzas. It is _spectacular_ , Josephine: the floating city."

"But I _want_ to lift a finger," she said, withdrawing her hand to rise to her feet. "All of them, and more. I am _all in_ here at the Opera, Erik. In Venice, I am an afterthought."

He stood as well. "It would be different. You would not be an isolated captive there. It was selfish of me to keep you here as I have, but that will change."

She was silent a long time, her brow furrowed in thought, and when she finally gave him a reply it was tinged with regret. "I was isolated before I even came to live with you, Erik. I do not think that I could surrender the agency that I have now."

He felt a lump in his throat. "It is not safe for me to stay," he said. "I have remained here on borrowed time."

"And I do understand that. But why now? You have remained holed up here for a year after _Don Juan_ , and only _now_ you have the impetus to leave? What has kept you here so long?" The instant he averted his eyes, he knew that he had given himself away. A shadow passed over her face. "I see," she said. "Not a _what,_ but a _who_."

"I needed to heal," he replied. "But you have accelerated that process, Josephine, more than you can possibly know."

"Oh, wonderful," she said. The bitterness lacing her voice was an assault on his heart. "How splendid that you can both move on at the same time."

Her tone was baiting—a hint at information withheld—and despite his misgivings he could not help but bite. "What do you mean?"

"Christine is with child. I imagine that is why she and the vicomte are leaving the city."

He sucked in a breath. "How do you know?"

"I did her costume fitting yesterday."

He remembered Josephine the night before: vacillating between fire and ice, skewering him for his indiscretions, and then clinging to him with desperate urgency. Concealing the evidence of her missing womb. Hurting.

He thought of Christine, her belly swollen with the offspring of that insufferable vicomte, her cheeks rosy and glowing from impending motherhood and all of the happiness that he could not give her. He apparently could not provide Josephine with the happiness that she deserved, either. He had failed on all counts.

The room spun, and Erik thought he might be sick. He reached for the tea table to steady himself, and his hand found the small brass clock that rested there. He obtained a firm grip and lifted the clock to examine its heft in one hand. Before he knew what he was doing, he had hurled it against the wall, where it shattered upon the stone in a loud hailstorm of glass and metal.

Josephine looked at him as though he had struck her, and he knew then that he had reacted to the news in the worst way possible. "Forgive me," he whispered, sinking into a chair. "That was untoward of me."

She shook her head. "I was afraid of this," she said. "Afraid of being relegated to the role of understudy. I ought to have known better."

Did she really think so little of him? He knew that he ought to reassure her, but the urge to point out her hypocrisy was too strong. "Please. We both know that I am merely the latest in a line of men whose sole purpose is to stanch the gaping wound that you refuse to address."

She gaped at him. "How _dare_ you," she hissed, but he saw the uncertainty in her eyes and knew that, however inappropriate his remark had been, she had detected a kernel of truth in it.

"Tell me, Josephine, what changed between when you kissed me out of loneliness and when you threw yourself at me last night? The news of a pregnancy, perhaps?"

To see her face fall as it did was like the twist of a knife to his gut. He did not even know how he wanted or expected her to respond: to reply in the affirmative and vindicate him? To confess that she had fallen for him and make amends? Whatever response he subconsciously desired, it was not the one that he got.

"I think," she said slowly, "that it is time for me to take my leave."


	14. Renewal

The last time that Josephine saw her fiancé, he had brought her yellow tulips. They sat in a vase at her bedside, garish and mocking in their vibrancy while her own sickly exterior remained devoid of color. Her body was so heavy with fatigue that she fought to keep her eyes open as she explained the sudden operation, and what it meant.

His hands, which had clasped hers to still their shaking, recoiled as though she had confessed to plague and not infertility.

She had hoped for his commiseration as they worked together to move forward. Instead, nearly delirious from pain and blood loss and dehydration, she found herself forced to make a case for why he should uphold their engagement.

"It is not enough," he had uttered between apologies. _You_ are not enough, she heard.

She had felt a knot deep in her throat, and she swallowed it. She did not want to upset her stitches. The sadness settled into her muscles instead, pulling them taut.

Going forward, as long as she did not say his name out loud, the knot stayed submerged with it.

He was married within the year. A child arrived ten months later. A boy, she was told, with mahogany hair like his father.

Her muscles had tightened further. She had imagined them hardening into a barrier around her heart, becoming more impenetrable with each passing month—until the appearance of Erik, who had chipped away at it with sweet, benevolent diligence until it now threatened to crumble at her feet.

As Josephine stood weak-kneed before him, announcing her intention to leave, the sitting room became unbearably dark and oppressive. In her head, she saw the brass clock shattering over and over again.

"I think it is best that we both have some time and space, to...to reflect," she managed to utter. Was she as cowardly as she felt in that moment?

To her simultaneous relief and dismay, Erik did not protest. "If that is what you wish," he said. He remained in his high-backed chair, morose and silent, while she gathered her few possessions.

When she stood before him with her bag packed, the air between them sodden with finality, he was slow to get to his feet. "Follow me," he instructed.

He procured a lantern and led her down the hall and into his room, where she had never set foot. It was too dark to make out much, but she did notice the sheet of paper tucked into the frame of his bedroom mirror: the Orpheus poem that she had given him.

Erik slipped into his adjoining washroom and stopped next to the sink, where he held the lantern up to the wall. Embedded in the stone was a thigh-level iron panel on hinges; it looked rather like an oven. He tugged at its handle, and the door creaked open indignantly to reveal a hatchway.

"Through the opening is a sewer tunnel that runs alongside the opera house," he said, passing her the lantern. "Turn right and walk until you reach the ladder. Your point of exit will be well hidden from view."

Josephine moved to the hatch and extended the lantern for a glimpse of the other side, but she was met with darkness. No matter—she trusted him, despite everything. She fumbled for the right words to deliver, for the courage to say something meaningful, for the self-restraint to keep from seeking out his embrace.

"Erik," she said, finally turning to address him—but he was gone.

* * *

She went to work. With opening night a week and a half away, not going was not an option. She passed through the day like a spectre, fading lifelessly into the walls as she watched her body wind silk vines around Greek columns, separate of her consciousness.

When at last the work day drew to a close, she walked straight to the Tuileries.

It was early evening, and the gardens were still overrun with people. Josephine sat at the base of the most secluded tree that she could find, a thick-trunked chestnut, and let her head fall back against the bark. A cool breeze swept in, carrying with it an olfactory cocktail of greenery, cigarette smoke, cheese, and sewage.

Oh, she had missed this.

She stayed rooted in the same spot for hours, soaking in the season and considering how things with Erik had unraveled so quickly.

She did not regret advocating for herself in response to his proposition. She had been left with nothing and no one once before, and she had yet to recover from that, years later. Was it so wrong to want a safeguard, a source of happiness or purpose that did not hinge solely on one reclusive man in a foreign city?

Perhaps, though, still buzzing with the promise of new passion, they had both been too hasty with their plans. If that had been the only transgression of the morning, she might have sought him out sooner to discuss it and make amends.

But she could not unsee his violent reaction to the news of Christine's pregnancy, and she could not forget his accusation: _I am merely the latest in a line of men whose sole purpose is to stanch the gaping wound that you refuse to address._

She turned the words over in her mind until, with some reluctance, she reached into her satchel to fish for the small pocket that she had sewn into the lining. From it she withdrew a folded sheet of paper, untouched for more than two years. Her fingers trembled as she opened it. She recalled how, after her fiancé left, her bedridden body had been able to do little but read and sketch. She had sketched the window, the wilting tulips, endless cups of tea, her toes poking out from beneath the bedsheet. Sometimes she added watercolors. When she had finally recovered enough to walk to the Tuileries, she spent the whole day painting, feeling the faintest stirrings of revival in her chest.

Her parents had announced their impending move to the countryside the following day. Her brother's relocation followed soon after.

Josephine set the unfurled paper on her thigh and smoothed out the creases. It was dark now, the gardens nearly empty, and she could just make out the lemon-yellow tulips painted onto the page.

A small cry slipped from her mouth. She clamped a hand over her lips and pulled herself to her knees, hunching over as though to cut off any further cries that meant to escape. But her chest started shaking, and as she released a second, muffled cry into her palm, and she knew that she could not stop it. She fell forward onto all fours, her knees and palms digging into the cool, damp earth, and braced herself.

The sobs, when they came, possessed her so violently that her upper body heaved—practically retched—as they forced their way out of her lungs. Each choking cry left her gasping for air in its wake.

She cried for her physical loss and for her sense of self. She grieved for the husband and family that she would never have, for the absence of her dear parents and brother. It should have been too much to grieve at once, but her body would not stop convulsing, as if to expel poison.

She wept for letting herself be vulnerable, and then she wept because for once she was _not sorry_ for her vulnerability, because it had led to something real and true with Erik, and now that thing was possibly gone and she already missed it so much that it hurt. She cried because she had begun to believe that maybe, just maybe—with him—she was enough.

She mourned all of these things, and she wiped away tears with dirt-caked fingers that left streaks of mud on her face. Her arms gave out and she collapsed onto her side, her cries dwindling to sporadic whimpers. Her throat burned; her eyes stung; every muscle in her body ached from brutal overuse. She had divested herself of every scrap of feeling.

It was some time before she pushed herself up off the ground. The memories were still there, still tinged with sorrow—but they had shrunk and become less dense, like firewood curling into ash.

It rained on her walk back to the opera house. She let the streams of water wash over her soiled face and soak into her dress and skin, and she remembered why spring was her favorite time of the year: renewal.

* * *

She slept in the scene shop all week. It would make more sense than the atelier at this point if she were spotted and needed a hasty excuse.

Each night, Josephine wrapped herself in a threadbare quilt and sipped from a bottle of wine. She reread _Jane Eyre_ by candlelight, and she cried, as she often did, when Jane was reunited with the newly disfigured Mr. Rochester at Thornfield. The tears were cleansing and sweet, like a summer rain, and she knew then that she had, in fact, fallen in love with the Phantom of the Opera.

A part of her always hoped that he was watching, longed for him to step out of the shadows and fold her into his cloak. But he did not come.

There was one night when she woke to a feather-light brush across her brow, but in the darkness she could see no one. "Erik?" she whispered. There came no response, though she thought she heard a faint rustle of fabric across the room. She slipped back into unconsciousness, and in the morning she was convinced that it had all been a dream.

* * *

Opening night.

Josephine allowed herself to wander through the flurry of dancers, stagehands, and chorus members crowding the stage and its adjoining hallways. Her own work was finished, but she relished the excitement, the surge of adrenaline that always set in just before a performance.

Her fellow set designer caught up to her outside a row of dressing rooms. "I have a special treat for you, my dear," Victor said, flashing two tickets at her. "We shall enjoy tonight's performance from the front of the house."

"Oh, Victor, that _is_ a treat!" Her reactive smile faded, however, as reality set in. "I am afraid that I do not have any suitable attire, though."

"But _I_ do!" chirped a voice behind her. She turned to find the Vicomtesse de Chagny poised to enter her dressing room, positively beaming. "This way, Mademoiselle Arnaud," Christine said; she pushed open the door and beckoned entreatingly.

Josephine looked to Victor, who grinned and shooed her in. "We'll meet at the bottom of the grand staircase," he said, "at ten minutes to curtain."

As it turned out, the vicomtesse had several ensembles stashed away for post-performance functions and festivities, needing to be ready at a moment's notice to meet a wealthy benefactor or a foreign dignitary. Still Josephine protested; the clothes were far too fine.

"Nonsense," Christine said, rummaging through her wardrobe. "I have the perfect gown for you. It arrived just the other week, but I can no longer fit into it. Besides, I do not think that the color suits me. It would make me much happier to see _you_ wear it." She laid out a pile of rich crimson fabric, flashing Josephine an excited smile, and then made for the door. "Let me summon the ladies to help us."

The ladies, Josephine learned, were the no fewer than three women who helped Christine dress for each show, and she was generous enough to have them assist Josephine in donning what was decidedly a more complex ensemble than her own costume.

"Oh, you look _stunning_ ," the vicomtesse gushed when they had finished. She took Josephine's hand and guided her to the full-length mirror on the wall. "See for yourself."

Josephine could scarcely breathe at the sight. The dress had a snug, boned bodice of blood-red satin that tapered to a point just above the apex of her thighs. It was sleeveless, with a soft spray of red ostrich feathers at one shoulder. The pleated satin of the bust formed a plummeting sweetheart neckline; never had she revealed so much skin in public.

The gown was swathed in an overskirt of scarlet damask that draped asymmetrically across her front from right hip to left knee, and below that lay a skirt of red satin lined with taffeta.

When she turned around, she could see the wide V formed by the outline of the bodice as it sloped inward from each shoulder, exposing another triangle of milky skin. The back was laced shut, and swells of the red damask gathered atop the bustle before spilling over it like a sensuous waterfall, the fabric pooling onto the floor and out into a short train behind her.

As though the dress were not luxury enough, Christine had ignored Josephine's protests and insisted on loaning her shoes and silk gloves as well. One of the attending women had brushed out Josephine's dark hair until it shone and then swept it into an elegantly simple updo, teasing out short curls to frame her forehead and face.

As a final touch, her neck bore a gold choker, the very one that Christine had worn into the theater that day. The necklace consisted of two braided gold strands, a small gold rose punctuating each point of contact between the braids for a total of six. At her clavicle, two larger roses were pressed to each other as though in an embrace, and hanging from their center was a teardrop pearl.

Even as her eyes misted, Josephine felt a surge of warmth and confidence. "Everything is exquisite," she said, absently fingering the pearl. "I wish I could adequately express the depth of my gratitude, madame. I will return everything immediately after the performance."

Christine waved her words away. "No, you must wear this to the party after! You can bring it by tomorrow."

* * *

In her seat next to Victor, Josephine thrummed with anticipation as the orchestra warmed up in the pit. Her eyes kept darting to box five, permanently shuttered since _Don Juan Triumphant_. Surely Erik was watching from somewhere? She wanted so desperately to know what he thought of her work. The persistence with which she had drafted and redrafted, supervised construction, agonized over every detail—it had always been with him in mind, she knew now. She could think of no higher praise than his approval.

The orchestra launched into the _Orpheus and Eurydice_ overture, and her stomach flipped as she recalled that this was to be Christine's last production. Surely he would not feel the need to intervene again? No. No, he would not. Of that she was almost certain. She let herself relax and enjoy the spectacle.

She missed the thrill of being backstage, but she had to admit that the performance was much lovelier when viewed from the front of the house. She joined the audience in their hushed silence as the curtain opened to reveal Eurydice's tomb, a chorus of nymphs and shepherds mourning while Orpheus poured out his grief. She felt the crowd's hope when the goddess of love, Amor, offered him a chance to rescue his love from the underworld, and with quiet pride she heard their gasps when that underworld materialized on stage. She was moved to silent tears when Orpheus broke down and turned to look at his wife, sending her back into the claws of death, and again when Amor reunited the lovers in reward for his devotion.

Afterward, Victor escorted her to the party for cast and lead staff, where she floated on champagne and her cloud of crimson satin and damask. Josephine could not help but smile; everything about the evening had been sumptuous and perfect. That was, except for the fact that Erik had not been there to share in the success with her.

And then, with sudden and startling clarity, she knew that she must go to him.

There was nothing for her in Venice, but she would find it. Because she would be with him, and he pushed her to strive for better. She would forgive him his outburst, for he was allowed to grieve, just as she had done at the news of her ex-fiancé's marriage and newborn son.

She said her goodbyes and excused herself from the fête, gliding past the theater offices and dressing rooms to the scene shop in order to change.

She was nearly at her destination, peeling off her gloves, when she heard footsteps behind her. Her pulse quickened. Was it—? No, Erik would not be so easily detectable.

"Mademoiselle Arnaud!"

She paused in the doorway of the shop. She knew who had called to her, but the oddity of his presence compelled her to turn and make sure. There was, however, no mistaking the cocksure walk and mop of sandy hair. "Monsieur le vicomte?"

"A word, if I may."

She nodded and stepped into the room, even as her gut warned her that there was nothing right about this setup. When Raoul came in and closed the door behind them, all pretense of propriety disappeared. She could now see that despite the cordiality of his tone, the lines of his face and jaw were hard. She backed up a few paces and took stock of the tools nearby, considering which would prove the most effective weapon if need be.

When he smiled at her, his eyes were completely devoid of mirth. "It is a curious thing, mademoiselle, how many of your set pieces should replicate almost _exactly_ the underground lair of the Phantom of the Opera as I recall it."

She swallowed. _This_ was certainly an unforeseen consequence.

"When I saw them tonight," he continued, "I recalled how unaffected you seemed, all those weeks ago, at the news of the monster's possible return. And what should one make of your intimate knowledge of hidden staircases?"

Josephine looked down at her skirts, unable to withstand the heat of his glare. "What is it that you want me to say, monsieur?"

"I want you to tell me why the demon has once again absconded with my wife."

She jerked her head up, stunned, and met a gaze so saturated with malice that it frightened her. "I am sure you are mistaken," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Am I? Well, then, perhaps you can explain to me how it is that I saw her into her dressing room to rest, only to return mere _seconds_ later to fetch the drink I'd set down and find her gone. Again!" he cried, fists tight at his sides, and then he laughed. "I let it happen _again_." Raoul kicked at an empty metal bucket, sending it clattering across the floor and making her jump.

He began to pace in front of her, leering. "Meanwhile, here you are, leaving the party just as she disappears, headed somewhere that is decidedly not outside the opera house. And wearing a necklace that _I_ bought her, no less!"

"I can assure you, monsieur le vicomte, that I had nothing to do with this. I am quite fond of your wife."

"Then you will not mind if I ask you to take me to his prison."

She started. "Monsieur?"

"I have regularly inspected the entrance to the underground lake since the man's return was first suspected," he said. "It remains chained and padlocked to this day. Either he has relocated, or there is another way in. Regardless, you must lead me there."

She knew that she could not deny her involvement with Erik, not with Christine's safety in the balance. "Let me go alone," she proposed, "as a liaison, to gather information. I am sure that there is some kind of misunderstanding at hand."

He shook his head. "There is no time, and quite frankly, I do not trust you."

"But to do what you ask of me, monsieur—it would be...a betrayal."

Raoul slammed his fist against the surface of a work table, shouting, "He is a _kidnapper_ and a _murderer!"_ Upon seeing her flinch, however, he reined himself in and lowered his voice to intone, "Is not your refusal to save my wife a betrayal in itself?"

She did not know how to reply. He reached out to clasp her hands, his eyes seeking hers. She felt his desperation and heard his voice falter as he leaned in and said, "Please, mademoiselle. For my wife and my unborn child."

She squeezed her eyes shut. _The unborn child_. She refused to believe that Erik would be so cruel.

"I do not believe your accusations," she said slowly, "and though I promise to help you to locate your wife in any other way that I can, I cannot lead you to his doorstep."

Josephine opened her eyes in time to see how despairingly his face fell, and in that moment she hated herself for her selfishness.

Raoul let her hands drop and took a step back, and she watched him struggle to reclaim some impassiveness. "So be it," he said. "Just know, mademoiselle, that you have forced my hand." He reached into his overcoat and withdrew a small pistol, taking steady aim at her breast as he cocked the hammer with an unsettling _click_. "Now, I ask you again: take me to the devil."


	15. Orpheus in the Underworld

_Thank you for your lovely reviews of the previous chapter! The next one will likely be the last. (I say "likely" because I haven't actually finished writing it yet.) Sniff._

* * *

The truth about box five was that it was actually a rather terrible vantage point. Its appeal lay in the fact that the structural column next to it was hollow, allowing Erik hidden access via a ladder from one of the lower levels, and he could peer through the cut-out eyes and mouth of a sculpted marble face.

The poor viewing angle was ordinarily not an issue for the Opera Ghost, who concerned himself with the music above all else. It did, however, present a challenge for admiring set pieces such as those designed by one Josephine Arnaud.

Thankfully, he'd had the foresight to write the box office several weeks prior, under a pseudonym, in order to reserve and pay for an expensive box near the center of the auditorium. For the opening night of _Orpheus and Eurydice_ , he snuck into the unit early, well before the the front of house staff arrived. He barred the door and remained out of sight in the curtained-off vestibule, hoping that he would be left alone and that the box office would pass him off as a no-show for failing to claim his ticket at the entrance.

It was easily the riskiest thing he had done since _Don Juan Triumphant_ , and it did not escape his notice how the particular combination of brunettes and opera made him lose all sense of self-preservation. This time, though, he had planned for a very different outcome.

Even as the bitter sting of rejection lanced his breast, he had realized soon after Josephine's departure that her concern was justified. She _had_ been an afterthought to him—if only because, not twenty-four hours before, her presence had never been a possibility in his travel arrangements. How quickly their intimacy had changed! He wished she would not fault him for that, but he understood. He had paced the sitting room until he'd formulated a plan, and then he set to work.

It kept him occupied over the next week, almost enough to distract him from how much he missed her. She did not come to him, which stung, but neither did he seek her out except to determine where she was staying. He watched her sleep in the scene shop twice before he talked himself out of it, knowing that it was invasive and that she would surely have chastised him for it.

He was determined not to confront her until he could offer her everything that she wanted—everything that she deserved. And that hinged entirely on opening night.

Now holed up in the opera box vestibule for hours, he passed the time with a recently obtained copy of _Jane Eyre_. He recalled with amusement how he had once inquired about the "piece of womanly fluff" that Josephine kept reading, only to be indignantly informed that it was "one of the finest and most relevant pieces of literature of all time." He had given little weight to her opinions then, but now they meant everything to him. And so, for the first time ever, he was reading a book written from a woman's point of view.

He was stunned by how much he saw of Josephine in Jane and of himself in Mr. Rochester, but the more he read, the more he could also see the reverse. It took his breath away when Jane spoke of her childhood doll: ". . . Human beings must love something, and, in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven image, shabby as a miniature scarecrow."

He finished the novel as the other patrons came pouring into the auditorium to fill their seats and boxes. He felt moved, and changed, and grateful. It had brought him that much closer to understanding his often inscrutable scene artist.

He set the book down and moved to the red brocade curtain that separated the vestibule from the seats overlooking the auditorium, and he peered out through a gap in the panels. And there he saw her: a vision in crimson.

He should not have been able to spot her, not when she looked so different, but he had come to know so well the shape and posture of her figure, the gentle slope where neck met shoulder, the contrast of coffee-brown hair against alabaster skin. He watched her slip into a seat on the main floor, her back tense with the discomfort that he knew must come from feeling out of place among the other patrons.

He did not know where she had obtained such finery, and he did not care. He could not tear his gaze from the back of her neck, the urge to press his lips to her exposed skin growing stronger with every passing second, even as the orchestra played the overture and the stage curtains parted. And then there she was on stage, too: her essence, her creation.

It was the first time he had ever sat through a performance without the music at the forefront of his mind.

Josephine had set Eurydice's stone tomb in a twilit forest with a palette of dusky blues. Here, her expertise was in her restraint. He had come to expect from the Opera Populaire a stage bedecked with flourishes and bright colors and frippery, but here was a melancholy simplicity that served to emphasize the gravity of Eurydice's death and the resulting agony of her husband.

The first act concluded with a seamless physical shift to act two—one of Victor's particular skills, as he recalled. The tomb was lowered into the deep storage space below the stage; it was a system of ropes and windlasses, he knew, that pulled the tomb down, but from the auditorium it appeared as though it was being swallowed by the earth. He could think of no better way to transition into the entrance of the underworld.

From the fly loft descended a painted backdrop of a stormy gray sky over an equally stormy body of water, and—in front of it—an enormous gate of latticed iron in the image of his own portcullis. It stretched the whole width and height of the stage. Chorus members and dancers costumed as horned demons poured out of the wings to flank either side of the gate, twining their limbs through the gaps and even scaling the lattice. A handful of the performers climbed to breathtaking heights only to hang upside-down by their legs or at other precarious angles, and he realized in a moment of delighted surprise that they were acrobats.

As the demons swarmed the portcullis like insects to flypaper, four enormous wrought-iron candelabras rose up from beneath the stage. They were, again, crafted in the image of his lair, and they were lit, casting ghastly shadows across the set. He picked up on a thrum of hushed, awed murmurs from the patrons, which stunned him, for he had known them to remain irritatingly detached from the content of a production, instead viewing the opera as a place for the city's elite to see and be seen.

The ballet corps came onstage as the furies, their skirts layered with jagged strips of black chiffon and red crêpe that rippled like flames, somehow both primal and elegant. And then Orpheus entered with his golden lyre, pleading for admittance in order to rescue his wife from death.

Erik was suitably impressed—touched, even—by the scene and how it captured beauty even in darkness. _His_ darkness. She saw beauty in _his darkness._

At the end of act two, the demons scattered and the iron gate rose back into the fly loft. What happened next took his breath away.

From stage left emerged an ornate black boat in almost an exact likeness of his own, down to the warm glow of the single lantern hooked onto the bow. It crossed in front of the stormy backdrop, rowed by a single occupant with a long pole. He was cloaked in all black, his face obscured by a hood: Charon, the ferryman who carried souls of the newly deceased across the River Styx and into the underworld.

The figure was haunting but majestic. When the boat slowed to a stop mid-stage, there was something authoritative in the way that Charon beckoned to Orpheus, as though he were being granted a special privilege. Fascinated, Erik watched as Orpheus to stepped into the boat and was ferried off stage. There was a ballet, and then the curtains closed for intermission.

 _God_ , she was brilliant. He reflexively slapped his palm against the wall of the vestibule and then prayed that no one in the neighboring box decided to investigate the sound.

The whole act had been an homage to him and to his home—his terrible, beautiful underworld. The fact that she had seen and appreciated any beauty where he was concerned was enough to make his eyes water. And he was so painfully, ridiculously proud. He felt every fiber of his being being pulled in her direction, but he resisted; he was _so close_. One more act, and then a pivotal meeting he had scheduled off site would determine their fates.

* * *

It was late when Erik returned home. The meeting had run long, but it was fruitful. He had sought out Josephine immediately after but found her in the midst of a company celebration, her cheeks flushed with merriment and wine, and he could not bear to tear her away. He would go to her first thing in the morning.

It was with great shock that he entered the sitting room to find another woman standing with her hand on his pipe organ, and he froze. "Christine."

Her hand snapped back in surprise, and they studied each other as though disbelieving that they now shared the same space. She wore an evening gown of rich sapphire-blue satin, the skirt brocaded with sprays of blush-colored roses. A slit of dark pink fabric peeked through a gap in the overskirt. Her hair was pinned up instead of tumbling over her shoulders as he had always preferred, but she was just as beautiful as ever.

"You should not be here," he finally managed to utter.

"I shan't be long. I had to know," she said quietly. "I had to see for myself that you were still alive."

"Yes, I am very much alive." He crossed the room and gestured to a chair. "Please. Have a seat."

She complied, staring at the hands folded in her lap as he sat across from her. Eventually, hesitantly, she spoke. "I have thought about you often, angel."

"Erik."

She frowned. "Pardon?"

"Please call me Erik. I am no angel."

She nodded. "Erik," she echoed, the word sounding sweet but strange to his ears. "I do not regret the choice that I made, but I have spent this past year steeped in guilt over how I left you."

Oh, sweet Christine. For a moment, he could almost see it: the life they might have had together. Her goodness would have tempered his volatility. But how would she have endured his long stretches of self-imposed isolation? Or tolerated his abrasive candor? Even within their voice lessons, where honest critique was expected, he had made her cry on more than one occasion.

It did not matter. He had found someone who could more than withstand those facets of his personality.

He shook his head. "Please do not trouble yourself," he told her. "I acted abominably, and yet you have given me more kindness than I deserve. You have changed me irrevocably, Christine. I fear, though, that I am still struggling to live up to your moral code."

"Oh, Erik, do not fashion me into a paragon of morality. Why, at this very moment my husband believes that I am resting in my dressing room. I lied to him and snuck away through the mirror to see you."

As nervous as her actions made him, he was also touched. "What made you believe that I was still alive?"

"I have observed a stunning likeness of your home on the stage every day since dress rehearsals," she replied. He said nothing, so she continued. "I understand that you may not wish to implicate our mutual acquaintance, but between the set design and the fact that she had one of your handkerchiefs, I see no other explanation."

Her fingers reached for the sketchbook that sat on the tea table, open to a charcoal sketch of the fluffy tulle skirts that hung like inverted white peonies in the wardrobe area offstage. Josephine had left the book behind—he suspected intentionally, for she rarely went anywhere without it—and he had not brought himself to touch it just yet.

"Did she draw this?" Christine asked, and he nodded. "It's lovely."

She turned the page, and they were both presented with an image of his hideous, unmasked face. He cringed. She, however, studied the sketch, her gaze flitting from him to the page and then back again. He ventured another look, and he could see that Josephine had drawn him in repose, his eyes soft and introspective.

Christine slowly brought a hand to her mouth. "Goodness," she said. "She _loves_ you."

Erik shut his eyes tightly, reveling in the outside confirmation of what he'd felt in his soul to be true. Through the silence, he could just make out a creaking sound from down the hall: the hatch connected to the adjacent sewer tunnel. "She's here," he said, practically jumping to his feet. Christine's eyes grew wide; she closed the sketchbook and returned it to the table.

He listened for the familiar rhythm of Josephine's stride as her boots clicked against the stone floor, but his ears were met instead with slow, muffled footsteps and an occasional rustle of fabric. It was wrong. Something was wrong.

He had already reached for his punjab lasso when the Vicomte de Chagny came barreling into the room, but when he recognized the face of Christine's husband, he faltered. Why was that man forever mucking things up? And then a figure appeared behind him: Josephine, still in her red dress, with her wrists bound in front of her. He reflexively stepped forward, his grip on the noose tightening as something like a growl rumbled low in his throat.

"Not this time, monsieur," Raoul sneered. "This ends _now_."

There was a loud _crack_ that echoed painfully off the walls, and it was only when Erik's leg gave out and he crumpled to the ground that he realized he had been shot.

* * *

 _I know, I'm awful:_ _two cliffhangers in a row, and a shorter chapter to boot. I'm sorry! This was the best place for a break. I hope that the next chapter will make up for it._


	16. A Lasting Spring

_Final chapter! I'm a day late, I know, but I needed extra time get this one right (I hope). Thank you to those lovely readers who have favorited, followed, or otherwise stuck around for the ride. I know that I have a particularly quiet band of followers, but it would mean so much to me to hear from you at the end of this journey!_

* * *

Even though she heard the gunfire and saw Erik collapse, Josephine's brain could not connect the two events. She heard a woman's scream, but it was not her own. She had stopped breathing. Everything happened in a matter of seconds, but it felt like an hour.

Without thinking, she ran to him, barely cognizant of the armed vicomte, whom she brushed past in order to kneel next to Erik's prone form. She became peripherally aware of Christine's presence but did not have the capacity to question it. She could not find the wound. Even as she grasped the reality of the situation and concluded that Erik had, in fact, been shot, she could not help him. Her hands hovered over his torso, shaking and uncertain. "Erik," she said hoarsely.

He moaned—music to her ears, for it meant that he was still alive—and he reached for the side of his right thigh. And then she saw it: a small tear in the leg of his trousers, midway between knee and hip, the black wool matted with blood that had begun dripping onto the rug. He would be disgruntled with the rug even after surviving a gunshot wound, she knew, and the thought almost made her smile despite the circumstances.

"Stay back," Raoul warned, and she glanced up to find herself staring down the barrel of his pistol a second time. But the vicomte appeared stiff and unsettled, as though in disbelief of what he had done.

"I have to stanch the bleeding," she said, voice firm but hands still unsteady.

"Let her, Raoul," Christine begged. In a movement of gentle restraint, she crossed to her husband's side to wrap an arm around his waist. "She is not a threat."

His expression faltered, and Josephine decided that was permission enough. She reached for a seam of her skirt and, with some difficulty, tore off a wide swath of satin to press to the wound.

"Shameful waste of an exquisite garment," Erik grumbled from the floor.

At the sound of his voice, she emitted an ugly combination of a laugh and a sob, covering her mouth as the tears began to flow freely down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes as best she could before she squeezed his hand and brought his knuckles to her lips.

He used her grip to pull himself to a sitting position, and then she was kissing him, her lips bearing the weight of her relief. She felt him sigh against her mouth. He burrowed his fingers into her hair, hastily plucking out any pins that interfered with his access.

When she finally pulled away, her face was damp and her hand was sticky with the blood now seeping through the satin compress. Raoul and Christine were gaping at her. "What _is_ it about him that you women find so alluring?" the vicomte asked.

"It's the hat," Josephine deadpanned.

Erik nodded impassively. "There is power in a well-suited fedora."

She bit back a smile and folded the fabric over his wound for an extra layer of absorption. "We should seek out a doctor," she told him quietly.

"I have had much worse," he said. "We are lucky that the vicomte is such a poor marksman."

Raoul scowled. "That was a warning shot. The next one will not be so forgiving."

"Then why not just kill me straightaway?"

"Stop _encouraging_ him, you dolt," Josephine hissed.

"A good question," Raoul said, "since I have no need for you now that I have located my wife. This is the last time you misuse her, monsieur."

"Raoul, please!" Christine stepped in front of her husband, palms up and placating. "There was no misuse. I...I came here of my own volition."

He blinked at her, his lips parting wordlessly. The discomfort in the room was palpable. Then, slowly, he sank to his knees. The pistol clattered onto the cold stone beside him, and he folded at the waist to bury his face in his hands.

"Oh, _Raoul_." Christine let out a small whimper as she knelt on the ground next to him. She drew his head to her breast and stroked his hair. "Please, please forgive me."

When he lifted his head to face her, his eyes were glistening, his expression resigned. "Do you still love him?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Josephine found herself equally afraid of the answer, and her grip on Erik's hand tightened. But Christine shook her head. "Then _why_?" Raoul asked.

"I suppose I just...needed closure," she answered feebly.

A shadow crossed his face, and he got to his feet, staring down his nose at her. "Was our last wretched night here not enough closure? Was the need truly so great as to risk the life of our _child_?"

Christine's eyes watered, and she clasped her hands together as though in prayer. "I was heartbroken and scared, Raoul; I could hardly bear to leave my home and my vocation. I do not know how to be a vicomtesse."

"I do not understand what that has to do with _him_."

The soprano looked from her husband to her former teacher and then back again, her lower lip quivering. "Sneaking off felt like the last vestige of freedom," she admitted. She began to cry in earnest, and Raoul, looking defeated, sat back down to pull her into his arms.

Josephine suddenly felt as though she were intruding on something terribly private. She was also short on clean fabric for Erik's wound and loath to vandalize her borrowed gown any further. "Stay still," she told him quietly. "I will fetch some supplies and tend to your wound."

The couple barely glanced in her direction as she rose to her feet; she considered going for the gun, if only to move it to a safer location, but she worried that startling the vicomte would lead to deadly consequences. So she left them as they were, and the pair were in quiet conversation when she returned with an assortment of items bundled into a spare bedsheet so that she could carry them with bound wrists.

Without a word, Erik withdrew a pair of scissors from the supplies in order to cut her bonds. His fingers grazed her skin as he pushed aside the sheared rope, and the resulting stab of longing shot right to her core. It did not help when he cupped her face to pull her lips to his.

But his hands were shaking, and she bit back her desire, noting, too, his pale countenance and lack of usual vigor. She moved to wrap a blanket around his shoulders and handed him a theretofore unopened bottle of whiskey that she had been surprised to find among his fancy wines and cognacs. "Drink," she said. "Just enough to dull the pain a bit." Amazingly, he took a swig without complaint, and she set to cutting long strips of the bedsheet to use as bandages. The discussion across the room came back into focus.

"You must admit that you have been awfully protective these last few months, Raoul."

"What am I if not your protector?" he asked wearily. "What is left? We both know that you only chose me because I was the safer of your two options."

"I could very well have chosen no one at all," Christine reminded him curtly. "You were terribly dismissive of my concerns early on." As she continued, though, her voice softened. "But after everything we endured, that _did_ change. And you had always understood and embraced my humble beginnings. You regarded me as a person at a time when everybody else regarded me as a voice."

Erik's subtle flinch did not go unnoticed under Josephine's hands as she moved to cut away some of the cloth around the wound.

"I knew then that I could love you deeply," Christine said. "And I _do_ , Raoul. I love you so deeply that it aches, so deeply that I now carry a part of you inside of me—your child. That is what is most important right now, and I have been terribly selfish."

Josephine took the whiskey back from Erik and used it to soak a rag. "Brace yourself," she whispered to him as they both pretended not to listen to Raoul's response.

"Oh, Christine, I have never aimed to deprive you of anything," he said. "You ought to know that. Why else would I fight instinct and tradition to enable your return to the stage? I cannot predict how things will be once the baby arrives, but I swear on my life that I will not let you drown."

Josephine gently pressed the alcohol-soaked rag to the skin just outside the entry point of the bullet. Erik inhaled so sharply that it registered as a loud hiss, which drew the attention of the others. The vicomte slowly picked up the gun and rose to his feet to face the Phantom. Josephine froze, the rag still plastered to Erik's leg in such a way that it was likely causing him ongoing anguish, but he did not complain or even flinch. He was staring down the vicomte, his face etched with something like irritated resignation.

"Give me one reason," Raoul said, "why I should not destroy you as you have so callously destroyed the lives of others." This spurred Christine to stand, her eyes wide with fear, but she was silent as her gaze darted from one man to the other.

"It will haunt you for the rest of your days," Erik replied. "As much as I loathe you, monsieur le vicomte, I do not doubt that you have a conscience."

Raoul pursed his lips. "Am I to believe that you speak from experience?"

"I should think that the evidence is written in my face." Erik winced and shifted his leg, bringing Josephine to her senses, and she hurriedly finished cleaning the site so that she could bandage it. "I am weary, monsieur," he continued. "I regret my transgressions every hour of every day, which is infinitely more torturous than an expedient death."

"Regardless," Raoul said, "I cannot let you stay here."

"Ah, but that is taken care of. Your proof is in the letter on my desk."

Christine moved to pluck a sheet of paper from the writing surface. "How do you even receive mail?" Raoul asked incredulously. "No, never mind. Let me see that." His wife handed him the document, and he scanned it, frowning. "All this proves is that you are permitted to compose offsite, via correspondence, for the named opera house in Venice. There is no indication of where you will do said composing."

"That is up to Josephine."

Having just secured the bandage on his leg, she snapped her head up, startled. "What? Why? And since when have you resumed composing?"

"A month ago," he confessed, "during your work hours. I submitted excerpts to various opera houses, and the Teatro Malibran in Venice offered to commission the full score."

"You should have told me," she said. "I was shamefully dismissive of your relocation, and this is so very important."

He shook his head and waved her words away. "No, you were right. I am afraid, Josephine, that they do not have a place for you on their staff. But the day you left me, I wrote not only to the Malibran but also to every major opera house in France, singing your praises and inviting them to see the production of _Orpheus._ Many had representatives already planning to attend, and I met with a few of them just now, after the show."

She was dumbfounded. "You had not even seen the set pieces at that point."

"It did not matter. I understood your talent, even if I did not appear to respect it."

Josephine looked down at her skirt, nervously fingering the hem of the scarlet damask. "And what of your meeting?" she asked.

He put a hand under her chin and lifted it so that she was forced to look at him. "You have two offers of employment," he said, and his eyes shone. "Bordeaux and Marseille."

"Marseille?" she repeated, her spirits brightening.

"Yes; you would be near your brother. I know it is not Paris, not the Opera Populaire, but it is the best I can offer." He reached for her hand and enveloped it in his own. "That is, if you are still interested in...my company."

She nodded and said, "Very much so." Anyone else would likely have missed the surge of delight and gratitude that flitted across Erik's face, but she did not. She recognized it because it was what she now felt as well.

"What do you say, monsieur le vicomte?" Erik asked, but his eyes were fixated on Josephine as though he might devour her whole. "Is it enough for you to shoot me and then banish me from the city? Though I would ask that you allow us one night to recover before we depart."

"One week," she revised. "You are not fit to travel."

"You would be surprised at what I feel fit to do," he murmured, eyes still boring into hers, and she felt her face flush.

Raoul cleared his throat, breaking their trance. "One week," he decreed, no doubt made more agreeable by the fact that his wife had taken hold of his arm and was pressing delicate kisses to his knuckles as she slowly pulled him toward the door. "And now we shall take our leave, as I am wholly uncomfortable at this juncture."

Christine gave them a small smile, and had it not been for their shared moment in the atelier the week prior, Josephine might have missed the wistfulness that lingered there. "I wish nothing but the best for you both," the soprano said, and she looked to Josephine. "Please write when you are settled. I would like that very much."

Josephine agreed. Farewells were exchanged. And then she was left alone with the Paris Opera Ghost on a blood-soaked rug, in a blood-colored dress, with his blood still under her fingernails despite her best efforts with the rag. She moved to sit closer to him, their shoulders touching. She exhaled every ounce of tension that had built up over the past hour, and then she grabbed the whiskey, tilting her head back to drink deep from the well of amber liquid.

Erik let out a seductively low chuckle that warmed her insides almost much as the liquor did. "Do you recall our first meeting?" he asked. "You said that you did not think I'd let you walk away, in the end."

She lowered the bottle. "And was I right?"

He nodded. "I do believe that I am in love with you, Mademoiselle Arnaud."

With a smirk, she purred, "I do so enjoy being right." She raised the whiskey to her lips for another drink, but he snatched it from her hand and covered her mouth with his own instead. The kiss was so fervent, the pressure so great, that she felt the air being stolen from her lungs. Her hands and his moved of their own accord: twining through hair, clutching at fabric, running across skin.

When they separated for breath, there was no mistaking the reverence in his eyes. "Help me up from this damned rug," he said, and she obliged.

It was not until she helped him limp down the hall to his room, his arm wrapped around her shoulder for support, that he noted, "You are different."

"How so?"

"Lighter, freer. As though you have let go. Dare I suggest that I was right as well?"

She led him to his bed, where he sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress and held her by the waist. "I suppose," she grumbled.

"It kills you to admit it," he said, shaking his head. He pulled her down to sit next to him, angled so that he could lower his mouth to where her neck dipped into her shoulder. "Oh, what am I going to do with you, Josephine?" he murmured against bare skin. He began kissing his way up her neck, his fingers working to unfasten her bodice, and she shuddered at his touch.

"Marry me."

He ceased all movement. She remained still with her back exposed, listening to Erik's quickened breathing, and closed her eyes in wait.

"Is that what you want?" he asked quietly.

She nodded. "I think it is the best course of action to keep my brother from strangling you when we go to Marseille." She stood and slid the gown off of her shoulders, over her hips, until it sank to the floor in a heap. "Also, I love you." The undergarments came off, too, until she stood before him unabashedly bare.

It lasted only two seconds, but he smiled the most genuine smile she had ever seen grace his lips. "Then marry we shall," he said, and he patted the empty space next to him on the bed.

She slid onto the mattress to help him out of his own clothing, the injured leg creating a protracted comedy of errors. He then let her remove his mask without protest. By the time she pressed her warm body to his, taking the utmost care to be mindful of his injury, tenderness and contentment flowed so thickly between them that she nearly pinched herself to be sure that it was real.

There was no urgency this time, no self-consciousness: only the desire to touch and be touched, a reverent exploration of skin and curves and nerve endings. They lost themselves in each other, and they remained lost to themselves even as they both inadvertently slipped into sleep. They would wake later in a comfortable embrace to find themselves again.

Above them, spring blossomed in full force, awaiting Orpheus' ascent from the underworld.

* * *

 _And now I can admit that my jokey working title for this fic was "How Erik Got His Groove Back." I started writing it simply because I did not begrudge Christine her choice, but I still wanted to see him happy. Thanks again for sharing in the adventure with me._


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